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SUSPENSE 


HENRY  SETON  MERRIMAN       !   S^^i- 

Author  of ' '  Rodens '  Corners, "  "  Prisoners  a  nd  Captives,  '* 
"  The  Phantom  Future,''   "  Young  Mistley,"  Etc. 

>  1 


New   York 
The  F,  M.  Lupton  Publishing  Company 


SZJJ 

SSSf 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 

CHAP.  Msa 

I.  On  board  the  "Hermione" 9 

II.  The  Exception 15 

III.  AProblem 28 

IV.  A  Storm 87 

V.  The  Compact 48 

VI.  A  Shadow 60 

VII.  A  Sportsman's  Death 00 

VIIL  A  Joint  Command 79 

IX.  A  Divided  Responsibility 91 

X.  Fjaerholm 100 

XI.  A  Commercial  Transaction 113 

XII.  Bad  News 183 

Xtn    Off! 184 

BOOK  II. 

I.  At  Sea 144 

II.  Sisters 165 

III,  Alice  Returns 164 

rV.  To  the  Front , 178 

V.  Under  Fir© 100 

8 


2138043 


4  CONTENTS. 

VI.  Trist  Acts  on  his  Own  Responsibility 199 

VII.  Quicksands 209 

VIII.  Masked 219 

IX.  In  Case  of  War 280 

X.  A  Problem 238 

XI.  Mrs.  Wylie  Leads 248 

XII.  The  Philosophy  of  the  Sea 260 

XIII.  Cross-Purposes 269 

XIV.  A  Social  Conspiracy 282 

BOOK  III. 

I.  The  Sport  of  Fate 298 

n.  Breaking  It 802 

in.  Mrs.  V^''ylie  takes  the  Offensive 812 

rv.  An  Interview 820 

V.  Southward 332 

VI.  Theodore  Trist  Is  Arou.sed 340 

VII.  A  Lesson 851 

VTII.  Hicks'  Secret 860 

IX.  Wyl's  Hall 867 

X.  Diplomacy 378 

XL  Good-bye! 386 

XIL  At  Work 897 

XIII.  Plevna 406 

XIV.  The  Puzzle  of  Life 413 

XV.  The  End  of  it  All 421 


SUSPENSE. 


BOOK  I. 
CHAPTER  L 

ON   BOARD  THE    '' HERMIONB.*' 

"Brenda,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?** 

It  was  hardly  a  question.  The  intonation  of 
Mrs.  Wylie's  voice  was  by  no  means  interrogative, 
and  she  returned  placidly  to  the  perusal  of  her 
novel  without  awaiting  a  reply.  The  ladies  had 
been  reading  silently  for  at  least  an  hour,  until 
the  younger  of  the  two  allowed  her  book  to  lie 
unheeded  on  her  knee,  while  the  pages  fluttered 
in  the  breeze. 

The  remark  called  forth  by  this  action  was  ac- 
cepted literally  and  as  a  question. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Theo  Trist,"  replied  the  girl 
gravely.  She  did  not  meet  her  companion's  gaze, 
but  looked  wistfully  across  the  fjord  toward  the 
bleak,  dismal  cliffs.' 

Mrs.  Wylie  closed  her  novel  on  one  white  plump 
finger  and  drummed  idly  upon  the  back  of  it  with 
the  other  hand.  In  movement  and  repose  alike 
this  lady  was  essentially  comfortable.  Her  pres- 
ence suggested  contentment  and  prosperity  amidst 

6 


%  SUSPENSE, 

the  most  unpropifcious  environments.  The  Her- 
mione,  her  temporary  home,  a  broad,  slow-sailing 
achootier-yacht,  was,  below  decks,  conducted  on 
the  principles  of  a  luxurious,  roomy-house.  She 
had  a  wonderful  way  with  her,  this  plump  and 
fluiiliug  lady,  of  diffusinginto  the  very  atmosphere 
a  sense  of  readiness  to  meet  all  emergencies.  The 
elements,  even,  seemed  to  bow  to  her.  Overliead 
the  winds  might  roar  and  moan  aloud  through 
stay  and  rigging — all  around  tlie  waves  might  leap 
and  throw  themselves  against  the  standi,  low  bul- 
warks of  the  yacht — but  in  the  cabin  was  warm 
comfort  ;  and  with  it,  dainty,  womanly  ways. 
.Mrs.  Wylie  proved  most  effectually  that  at  sea,  in 
fair  weather  and  in  foul,  a  woman  can  be  a  woman 
still. 

She  now  reopened  her  book,  but  instead  of 
reading,  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  young 
girl.  Presently  she  laughed  musically  and  turned 
resolutely  to  the  open  page. 

"  Yes,'*  she  murmured — confessing,  as  it  were, 
that  her  thoughts  had  on  former  occasions  been 
drawn  in  the  same  direction.  ''Yes.  But,  Bren- 
da — I — should  not  advise  you — to — think — of 
Theo  Trist." 

There  are  in  the  lives  of  most  of  us  passing  mo- 
ments which  leave  a  distinct  impression  upon  the 
mind.  Of  all  the  million  words  wo  hear  there  are 
some  trivial  remarks  which  hold  fast  to  the  inner 
sinews  of  the  great  machine  we  call  memory — a 
machine  which  rests  not  by  night  or  day,  in  health 
or  sickness,  in  })ro3perity  or  woe.  Often  it  ii 
a  jest,  or  some  weighty  saying  spoken  in  jest. 
There  is  no  apparent  reason  why  some  words 
should  be  so  distinctly  remembered  while  others 
]>ass  away  from  recollection  ;  and  yet  small  obger- 


ON  BOARD  THE  "  HERMIONE,"  7 

vations,  interesting  only  in  the  passing  moment, 
catch  as  it  were  iu  the  mental  wheel,  and,  adher- 
ing to  the  spokes,  spin  round  with  them,  just  as 
a  mere  muddy  piece  of  paper  may  cling  to  the 
wheel  of  au  emperor's  carriage  and  flutter  through 
the  clieeriug  crowd,  calling  for  universel  atten- 
tion, 

Brenda  Gilholme  listened  to  Mrs.  Wylie's  laugh- 
ing caution  in  a  vague  way,  and  there  seemed  to 
come  into  her  mind  an  indefinite  recollection. 
Certain  it  was  that  she  had  never  heard  the  words 
before,  but  yet  they  were  forebodingly  familiar. 
The  semi-bantering  ring  of  the  lady's  voice,  the 
soft  hum  of  the  breeze  through  the  rigging  over- 
head, the  ripple  of  the  awning  stretched  tautly, 
and  the  regular  plash  of  tiny  wavelets  beneath  and 
all  around,  formed  an  entire  harmony  of  sound 
which  was  instantaneously  graven  on  her  memoiy, 
never  to  leave  it  from  that  day  forth. 

Mrs.  Wylie,  having  married'  happily  herself,  was 
of  the  firm  opinion  that  marriages  are  made  in 
heaven.  (TVe  of  course  know  better.  The  manu- 
factory is  situated,  my  brothers,  in  another  quarter, 
where  fuel  is  cheap  and  steam-power  readily  ob- 
tainable.) She  was  too  kind-hearted  and  too  merci- 
ful to  the  human  race  to  think  of  interfering  in 
the  work.  Perhaps  she  felt  that  if  heaven  turned 
out  such  poor  work,  hers  could  not  well  be  satis- 
factory. Be  that,  however,  as  it  may,  Mrs.  Wylie 
•was  no  matchmaker.  She  held  strange  views — 
alas  !  too  rarely  fostered — that  if  a  man  be  worthy 
of  a  woman  and  love  her  truly,  he  should  be  able 
to  win  her  for  himself  ;  and  that  if  he  cannot  do 
this  unaided,  he  is  better  without  her.  A  bold 
theory  most  assuredly,  and  one  worthy  of  con- 
sideration, • 


g  SUSPENSE. 

Of  conrse  she  knew  that  Theo  Trist  and  Brenda 
were  great  friends.  She  was  well  aware  that  in 
some  future  time  tiie  friendship  might  turn  to 
something  else.  With  most  young  men  and  mai- 
dens the  word  "  would  "  could  well  be  substituted 
for  ''might."  But  these  two  were  not  of  that 
human  material  which  is  woven  upon  a  common 
web.  Brenda  Gilholme  was  not  one  of  the  crowd 
— she  had  the  misfortune  of  an  intellect.  As 
existence  is  managed  in  these  days,  a  woman  with 
a  mind  nmst  not  expect  too  much  happiness.  It 
is  lamentable,  but  true,  that  the  brain  has  little 
to  do  with  earthly  joy.  In  these  esthetic  days  we 
talk  a  great  quantity  of  nonsense  about  "  soul," 
and  inner  consciousness,  and  feeling.  In  fact,  we 
are  getting  too  clever,  and  our  minds  are  running 
away  from  our  bodies.  Our  existence  is  material, 
talk  as  we  may  about  abstract  idealisms  ;  and  our 
joys  are  material.  Eating,  drinking,  working, 
sleeping— this  is  human  life,  and  those  among  us 
who  perform  those  functions  well  are  undoubtedly 
the  happiest. 

A  superior  intellect,  more  especially  in  woman, 
is  not  conducive  to  happiness.  Indeed,  it  is  di- 
rectly opposed  to  that  impossible  state.  It  was 
this  possession  that  made  Brenda  Gilholme  some- 
what different  from  her  fellows. 

Theo  Trist,  again,  had  his  peculiarities,  but 
these  must  perforce  be  allowed  to  transpire  here- 
after ;  and  besides  such  individual  matters  there 
■were  several  facts  knowr.  to  Mrs.  Wylie  which 
raised  doubts  as  to  wiiat  the  end  of  this  fritMidship 
might  be.  Trist  was  twenty-eight  and  Brenda 
was  nineteen,  while  both  were  in  manner  and  ap- 
pearance older  than  their  years  could  warrant. 
Also  was  there   another  matter  of  some  weight. 


ONBOARD   THE  '^ ills. RMIUNE:'  9 

Brenda  had  a  sister,  a  lovely,  unscrupulous   co- 
quette, two  years  older  than  lierself . 

Alice  Gilholme  had  been  pleased  to  change  her 
name  and  state  in  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square, 
earlier  in  the  year,  while  the  Hermione  was  yet  in 
dry  dock.  Three  Aveeks  after  the  wedding,  Theo 
Trist  returned  from  abroad  with  his  bland,  broad 
forehead  tanned  and  brown.  He  expressed  no 
surprise.  In  fact,  he  vouchsafed  no  opinion  what- 
ever. Had  lie  met  Captain  Huston,  the  happy 
bridegroom  ?  Oh,  yes  !  They  had  met  in  South 
Africa.  That  Avas  all  I  He  never  related  details 
of  that  part  of  a  difficult  campaign  which  they 
had  passed  together.  The  laconic  praise  contained 
in  the  two  words  *'  good  soldier,"  such  as  has  been 
applied  to  many  of  his  acquaintances,  was  not 
forthcoming. 

From  a  lady's  point  of  view,  Alfred  Woodruff 
Charles  Huston  Vt'as  the  beau  ideal  of  a  soldier. 
Tall,  straight  and  square-shouldered,  he  carried 
his  small  head  erect.  His  clear  brown  eyes  were 
quick  enough,  his  brown,  clean-cut  face  almost 
perfect  in  its  outline.  Indefatigable  at  Sandown, 
Hurlingham,  Goodwood,  Ascot — in  the  Grand 
Stand  bien  ent(!ndn — he  had  a  pleasant  way  of 
appearing  to  know  something  about  every  one  and 
everything.  But  Theo  Trist  had  not  met  him  at 
ai\y  of  these  places  or  in  fashionable  London  drav,'-^ 
iiig-rooms  later  in  the  day.  They  had  come 
together  in  South  Africa  in  the  course  of  a  cam- 
paign, when  both  h;id  lain  aside  the  accessories  of 
pleasure  and  were  hard  at  work,  each  in  his  chosen 
groove.  It  was  somewhat  strange  that  he  should 
never  offer  to  discuss  Captain  Huston  as  a  military 
man. 

*'  That  fellow  Huston,"  a  general  officer  had 


Id  s  us  pens/-:. 

OQce  said  in  an  unguarded  moment — '"  that  fellow 
Huston,  Trist,  is  the  biggest  duller  in  the  Britisli 
Army  !  " 

And  Trist's  answer,  given  after  careful  consid- 
deration,  was  laconically  severe  :  "  Yes,  I  am 
afraid  so." 

But  Alice  Gilholmo  omitted  to  consult  the 
general  officer ;  and  after  all,  if  Captain  Huston 
was  no  soldier,  he  was  at  least  a  gentleman,  uith 
elegant,  high-bred  ways,  and  an  ejnpty,  high-bred 
head,  containing  just  enough  brain  to  find  out 
the  enjoyment  of  existence.  The  happy  couple 
were  now  in  India,  where  we  will  leave  them. 

Whether  the  marriage  of  Alice  Gilholme  had 
been  a  severe  blow  to  Theo  Trist  or  no,  it  were 
hard  to  say.  Mrs.  Wylie  even  could  give  no 
opinion  on  the  subject,  and  Brenda  never  men- 
tioned it.  There  was  no  perceptible  change  in 
the  man's  strange  incongruous  face  when  the 
news  was  broken  to  him  without  premonition  in  a 
crowded  room.  His  life  was  essentially  ruled  by 
chance  ;  good  or  bad  tidings  were  therefore  no 
new  things  to  him. 

The  liermione  rose  and  fell  slightly,  almost  im- 
perceptibly, to  the  waves,  and  backward  and  for- 
ward across  tho  spotless  deck  Brenda  Gilholme 
walked  pensively.  She  was  motherless,  and  her 
father  was  entirelv  absorbed  in  political  strife, 
being  an  English  Home-Kuler.  This  thoughtful 
girl  "had  grown  ti]i  in  the  shade  of  her  sisters 
beauty,  an"^!,  like  many  a  fair  young  flower,  had 
perhaps  suffered  from"  the  contiguity.  She  was 
pleased  to  consider  herself  a  plain  uninteresting 
girl,  which  was  a  mistake.  Her  face,  small  ana 
proud,  was  in  profile  almost  perfect  ;  but  her 
eyes  were  set  too  close  together,  which  caused  a 


ON  BOARD  THE  "  HERMIONE."  1 1 

peculiar  disappointment  to  those  meeting  her  face 
to  face. 

Perhaps  she  was  a  discontented  little  person. 
Her  expression  certainly  warranted  such  a  belief. 
Undoubtedly  she  thought  too  little  of  herself. 
In  personal  charms  she  compared  unfavorably 
with  her  sister  Alice,  and  in  that  small  fact  lay 
the  secret  of  it  all.  Glory  of  any  description  un- 
fortunately casts  a  reflection  which  is  sure  to  be 
unpleasant  either  to  the  reflector  or  to  the  friends 
of  that  person.  The  sister  of  a  celebrated  man, 
his  cousins,  and  also  his  aunts,  are  usually  dis- 
agreeable people  ;  or,  if  by  chance  they  be  colored 
with  the  same  brush  and  possess  in  a  slight  degree 
his  talent,  they  are  discontented  and  unhappy. 
The  second  fiddler  will  be  found  less  companion- 
able than  the  eager  time-server  who  plays  the 
triangle  in  the  dark  corner  near  the  stage-box. 

Had  Brenda  Gilholme  been  launched  upon 
the  troubled  waters  of  society  alone,  she  would 
probably  have  made  a  better  place  for  herself  there 
than  her  sister  Alice  ever  reached  ;  but,  unfor- 
tunately, she  started  the  world  as  Alice  Gilholme's 
sister.  In  a  thousand  ways  clumsy  and  well- 
meaning  men  allowed  her  to  define  her  own 
situation.  With  that  sweet  charity  which  warms 
the  fair  bosoms  of  our  sisters  and  female  cousins, 
girls  took  every  opportunity  of  lamenting  Alice's 
backslidings  and  social  sins  in  the  hearing  of  her 
sister.  There  are  some  who  will  say  that  those 
lamentations  were  the  fruit  of  jealousy  and  petty 
female  spite,  but  this  assuredly  could  not  be,  be- 
cause these  same  guileless  maidens  were  never 
tired  of  praising  and  upholding  their  dear  /r/f/if/'.s 
beauty.  Now,  would  they  do  that  if  they  were 
jealous  ?    Oh,  no  ! 


12  SUSPENSE. 

"  Brenda,"  Admiral  Wylio  used  to  say,  with  a 
loving  twinkle  of  bis  intensely  blue  eyes,  "  Brenda 
is  a  brick."  She  was  true  and  loyal  ;  a  devoted 
sister,  and  a  stanch  friend.  Had  she  loved  her 
sister  less  she  would  have  carried  a  lighter  heart 
tlirough  many  a  gay  ball-room.  She  would  have 
suffered  less  from — let  us  call  it  the  mistaken 
kindness  of  her  sister's  friends.  She  would  have 
tliought  more  of  herself  and  less  of  Alice.  And 
yet  there  was  in  this  little  maiden  a  strange  touch 
of  pride.  She  carried  her  neat  little  head  very 
high,  although  she  failed  to  recognize  the  rare 
beauty  of  the  brown,  soft  hair  nestling  there.  As 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  deck  she  trod  firmly, 
with  a  certain  stnootli  strength,  although  she  was 

f>leased  to  ignore  the  possession  of  the  daintiest 
ittle  feet  ever  shod  by  Pinet.  Her  small  and 
beautiful  person  was  adorned  with  a  simple  seve- 
rity which  was  almost  defiant.  It  seemed  to 
throw  the  glove  down  before  the  face  of  human 
weakness — to  defy  opinion.  Alice  had  always 
been  the  beauty  ;  to  her  had  been  relegated  the 
fine  dresses  and  fascinating  hats,  and  Brenda  had 
played  second  fiddle.  Now  that  Alice  had  left  her 
life,  the  little  maiden  went  on  her  way  with  ap- 
parent serenity  ;  but  beneath  the  quietly  thought- 
ful exterior,  behind  the  sad,  questioning  eyes, 
there  was  that  curse,  the  bitter  sorrow  of  a  supe- 
rior intellect  placed  within  a  woman's  brain. 

Brenda  Gilholme  knew  too  much.  Her  esti- 
mate of  human  existence  at  the  age  of  nineteen  was 
truer  and  deeper  than  that  of  her  grandmother  at 
the  age  of  ninety.  And  around  us,  my  brothers, 
there  are  many  Brendas — many  women  and  young 
maidens  who  "know  us  too  well.  Human  nature 
has  been  ecraped,  and  probed,  and  stripped  until 


ON  BOARD   THE  "  HERMIONE."  13 

the  gilt  and  glamour  are  quite  lost.  Moreover, 
the  fault  is  chiefly  ours.  We  have  probed 
and  analyzed  with  our  pens  most  foolishly. 
Urged  on  by  the  spirit  of  competitiou,  we  have 
searched  deeper  into  man's  heart  and  woman's 
motive,  each  trying  to  get  nearer  to  the  core,  un- 
til at  last  the  subject  has  become  almost  repulsive. 

The  analyst  soon  discovers  that  many  substances 
are  the  mere  outcome  of  a  few  components  var- 
iously mingled.  Men  and  women  can  no  more 
bear  analysis  with  dignity  than  can  the  common 
ruck  of  cvery-day  food.  There  are  certain  com- 
ponent parts  capable  of  nourishing  the  human 
frame,  but  we  mix  them  up  into  many  dishes. 
He  who  dissects  his  meat  will  have  small  appetite, 
and  those  who  study  their  fellow  men  and  women 
too  closely  will  learn  to  despise  their  own  parents. 

"Women  are,  in  this  respect,  worse  off  than  men. 
Their  greater  insight  and  quicker  divination  en- 
able them  to  judge  mercilessly  and  with  unfortu- 
nate accuracy.  Since  they  have  joined  us  in  the 
great  work  of  analysis  (with  but  poor  results  from 
a  literary  point  of  view,  but  mighty  profits  to  the 
printer),  the  seamy  side  has  been  held  u])  to  in- 
quiring eyes  with  the  veriest  shamelessness. 
Surely  we  know  the  worst  of  human  nature  now 
and  most  certainly  those  who  are  running  behind 
us  in  the  race,  those  little  children  and  soft-eyed 
maidens,  can  read  even  as  they  run. 

Brenda  Gilholme  was  a  living  protest  against 
mental  cultivation  as  it  is  understood  to-day.  Her 
exceptionally  capable  mind  was  the  victim  of  over- 
education  and  a  cheap  literature.  Beneath  that 
soft  brown  hair  was  a  fund  of  classical  knowledge 
sufficient  for  the  requirements  of  an  Oxford  pro* 
le^^or,  theology  onough  for  a  deacon,  geometrj 


14  SUSPENSE. 

mixed  np  with  political  econoniv,  geography  and 
algebra,  general  knowledge,  lind  no  arithmetic 
worth  speaking  of.  All  this,  forsooth,  added  to  a 
taste  for  music,  and  an  innate  power  of  making  it 
very  sweetly.  And  all  for  what?  To  be  wisely 
forgotten  as  soon  as  possible — let  us  hope.  The 
best  woman  and  the  truest  lady  I  know  has  never 
seen  an  examination  paper  in  her  life.  At  least, 
I  believe  she  has  not.  Filial  respect  withholds 
my  question. 

It  is  rather  disappointing  to  come  freshly  into 
a  world  of  men  and  women  and  find  it  sorely  want- 
ing. This  Brenda  had  done.  The  women  ap- 
peared to  her  affected  and  ignorant,  because  with 
her  they  were  not  quite  at  ease  by  reason  of  her 
deep  education.  The  men  were  trivial  or  narrow. 
This  one  knew  more  geometry  than  she  did,  but 
of  classics  and  theology  he  knew  nothing.  An- 
other was  well  versed  in  theology,  while  of  political 
economy  he  could  speak  but  haltingly,  and  so  on. 
Each  was  in  his  narrow  sphere  ;  she  knew  too 
much  for  all,  and  could  apply  it  to  nothing  be- 
cause she  was  a  woman.  She  had  been  taught 
that  knowledge  was  power — that  the  whole  world 
passed  the  Cambridge  examinations — that  women 
were  born  to  muddle  their  sweet  inconsistent 
brains  over  deep  questions  relative  to  scmi-pre- 
Berved  languages,  to  weary  their  young  eyes  over 
imperfectly  printed  algebraical  problems,  and  to 
learn  many  things  which  they  are  best  without. 

But  with  it  all,  Brenda  Gilholme  was  a  woman. 
Instead  of  puzzling  her  daring  brains  over  ques- 
tions which  have  never  yet  been  approached  with 
safety,  she  would  have  done  better  had  she  knelt 
down  and  thanked  God  for  that  same  womanliness. 
And  being  u  woman,  she  weakly  thought  thnt  idl 


THE  EXCEPTION'.  1$ 

men  are  not  alike.  She  fondly  imagined  that  an 
exception  had  been  especially  created  and  placed 
within  her  own  sphere. 

Presently  she  stopped  walking  and  stood  beside 
the  low  rail,  grasping  an  awning-stanchion  with 
one  hand.  Tlie  wistful,  discontented  look  left 
her  eyes,  which  were  clear  and  bine,  with  long, 
dark  lashes,  and  in  its  place  came  an  interested, 
keen  expression. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  aloud,  *'  I  see  him  coming. 
There  is  a  small  sail  away  down  the  fjord." 

Mrs.  Wylie  looked  up  vaguely. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  absently;  ''I  dare  say 
you  are  right  I " 


CHAPTEK  IL 

THE  EXCEPTION". 

Tub  Hermione  lay  at  the  head  of  that  small 
branch  of  the  sea  called  the  Heimdalfjord.  This 
long  and  narrow  inlet  is  an  insignificant  branch 
of  a  greater  fjord  where  steamers  ply  their  irreg- 
ular traffic ;  where  British  tourists  gaze  up  with 
weary  eyes  at  the  towering  rocks  and  bleak  cliffs  ; 
and  where,  during  the  lon'g,  silent  twilight  winter, 
the  winds  howl  and  roar  round  tlie  bare  crags. 
On  either  side  of  the  Heimdalfjord  the  gray  hope- 
less cliffs  rose  a  sheer  two  thousand  feet,  while 
the  blue  deep  water  lapped  their  base  with  scarce 
a  ripple.  The  fjord  lay  between  the  mighty  bar- 
riers with  a  solemn  sense  of  profundity  in  the 
ptillnesa  of  its  bosom.     One  could  almost  picture 


1 C  SC/S/'£NSJi. 

to  one's  self  the  continuation  of  the  steep  incline 
into  a  great  dark  valley  beneath  the  superficial 
vittple,  where  mighty  marine  growths  reared  their 
brown  branches  up  toward  the  dim  light,  never 
swaying  to  the  ocean  swell — where  strange  north- 
ern fishes  and  slow  crawling  things  lived  on  un- 
known, unclassified. 

Amid  such  surroundings,  upon  the  face  of  so 
large  a  nature,  the  Ilermione  looked  incongruous. 
Her  clean,  long  spars,  her  white  awning,  the  yel- 
low gleam  of  her  copper  beneath  the  clear  water, 
nil  suggested  another  world  where  comfort  and 
smisll  refinement  live.  Here  all  is  of  a  rougher, 
larger  stamp.  Here  man  and  his  petty  tastes  are 
as  nothing.  The  bleak  and  dismal  mountains 
were  not  created  for  his  habitation,  for  nothing 
grows  tliere,  and  human  ingenuity,  human  enter- 
prise, can  uo  naught  with  such  stony  chaos. 

On  the  entire  Heimdalfjord  there  are  but  two 
boats — mere  pinewood  craft  heavily  tarred.  One 
is  owned  by  Hans  Olsen,  who  lives  far  away  at  the 
point  nhere  the  Sognfjord  begins,  and  the  other 
belongs  to  Christian  Nielsen,  who  farms  the  two 
acres  of  poor  soil  at  the  head  of  the  Heimdalfjord. 
No  steamer  has  ever  churned  the  still  waters  ;  few 
yr.clits  have  ventured  up  to  the  head  of  the  inlet, 
"where  there  is  no  attraction  to  the  sightseer.  But 
Nielsen  looked  every  year  for  the  white  sails  of  the 
nerniionc,  and  with  native  conscientiousness  re- 
frained from  netting  the  river  that  ran  past  his 
l)ro\vn  log-hut. 

The  river  brought  him  in  more  money  than  his 
farm, and  even  at  this  out-of-the-world  corner  of  the 
Heimdalfjord  money  and  the  lust  of  it  are  the  chief 
movers  of  men's  hearts.  Five  hundred  crowns  a 
year  was  a  sum  Avonli  thinking  about,  worth  de- 


THE  EXCEPTION,  ij 

privinc;  one's  self  of  a  little  salmon  for,  which, 
.ifter  all,  was  plentiful  enough  when  once  the  Her- 
rnione  had  cast  anchor. 

Four  miles  down  the  fjord  there  was  another 
break  in  the  great  wall  of  mountains,  andasecoiid 
river  danced  gaily  down  its  narrow,  barren  valley 
to  the  sea.  From  this  river-mouth  a  small  boat 
was  now  making  its  way  under  sail  up  tlio 
fjord.  A  tiny  speck  of  white  was  all  the  girl  could 
distinf'uish  from  the  deck  of  the  vacht,  and  she 
stood  silently  watching  its  approach  until  the  form 
of  the  sailor  sitting  low  in  the  bow  of  the  small 
brown  craft  was  discernible. 

The  sun  had  set  some  time  before,  so  that  tho 
water  was  in  shadow,  deep  and  blue  ;  but  up  on 
the  hills  and  away  to  the  south  upon  the  distant 
snow-clad  mountains  a  warm,  pink  glow  lay  hazily. 
Deep  purple  vales  of  shade  broke  the  line  of  clilTa 
abutting  the  water  here  and  there.  "Where  the 
hills  closed  together,  five  miles  away  (so  that  the 
fjord  appeared  to  be  a  lake),  there  was  a  rich  back- 
ground of  blue  transparency  through  which  the 
broken  crags  loomed  vaguely.  It  was  nearly  nine 
o'clock,  and  this  clear  twilight  was  all  the  dark- 
ness that  would  come  to  the  Heimdal  that  July 
night. 

The  breeze  hold  its  own  bravely  against  the  so- 
porific influence  of  Arctic  sunset,  and  with  full 
taut  sail  the  dinghy  splashed  and  gurgled  through 
the  waters.  The  steersman  was  invisible  by  rea- 
son of  the  recfloss  sail,  but  his  handiwork  was  ap- 
parent and  very  good.  A  wonderfully  straight 
course  had  he  steered  from  the  mouth  of  the  river, 
Buch  a  course  as  a  purposeful  man  will  steer 
when  he  is  without  companion  beyond  hia  own 
though  ta. 


l5  SUSPENSE. 

'*  He's  driving  her  along  I "  muttered  the  stew- 
ard, as  he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  galley-door. 

■'*  The  driving  is  like  unto  the  driving  of  Jehu," 
answered  old  Captain  Barrow,  who  was  smoking 
his  evening  pipe  upon  his  own  small  piece  of  deck 
between  the  galley  and  the  after-companion. 

Captain  Barrow  rarely  missed  an  opportunity  of 
throwing  at  the  head  of  the  steward,  who  (like 
most  good  cooks)  was  a  godless  person,  a  Biblical 
quotation  more  or  less  correct. 

Before  the  silence  had  again  been  broken  the 
dinghy  came  rushing  on.  Down  went  the  tiller, 
and  with  shivering  canvas  the  little  boat  swung 
round  alongside. 

Beside  the  after-rail  Brenda  stood  motionless  ; 
her  eyes  were  resting  on  the  dreary,  lifeless  scene 
which  was  nothing  but  a  still  blending  of  hazy 
blues,  now  that  the  small,  white  sail  no  longer 
gave  life  to  it.  She  did  not  even  turn  when  the 
sound  of  wot  splashy  footsteps  upon  the  deck  came 
to  her  oars.  The  newcomer  had  kicked  off  his 
brogues  amidships,  and  was  coming  aft  in  wet 
waders  and  soaking  outer-socks,  out  of  respect  for 
the  Hermione's  deck. 

There  was  a  vague  suggestion  of  respectful 
familiarity  in  his  movements.  One  could  tell  in- 
stinctively that  he  had  known  these  ladies  for 
numy  years.  Xor  did  he  apologize  for  the  in- 
formality of  his  pedal  attire. 

This  man  was  clad  du  reste  disgracefully.  His 
old  tweed  coat  was  baggy  and  most  lamentably 
worn.  One  sleeve  was  very  wet,  while  the  other 
was  muddy.  The  gray  waders  were  discolored, 
and  he  had  apparently  been  kneeling  in  green 
slime.  And  yet  withal  Theo  Trist  was  undoubt- 
edly u  gentleman — unmistakably,  undeniably  so. 


THE  EXCEPTION.  19 

Tho  manner  in  which  he  set  his  shoeless  feet  npom 
the  deck  betrayed  it.    His  very  silence  confirmed  it. 

He  came  beneath  the  awning,  and  raised  from 
his  close-cropped  head  a  most  lamentable  hat  of 
gray  cloth,  with  a  vagno  brim  and  no  independent 
shape.  Ail  round  it  were  gaudy  salmon-flies  and 
a  coil  of  gleaming  gnt. 

As  ho  stood  there  beneath  the  awning  in  the 
gray  twilight  with  his  head  bared,  the  strange  in- 
congruity of  his  person  was  very  noticeable.     A 
sturdy,   lightly-built  body   spoke  of  great  activ- 
ity.    It  was  the  frame  of  a  soldier.     But  the  face 
was  of  a  different  type.     In  itself  it  was  inconsist- 
ent, because  the  upper  part  of  it  had  no  sympathy 
with  the  lower.     A  forehead  which  receded  slightly 
in  a  kindly  curve  to  strong  curled  hair  could  only 
be   described    as  bland,    while   beneath   straight, 
thick  brows  there  smiled  a  pair  of  gray  eyes  as  meek 
as  human  eyes  were  ever  made.     It  v;as  in  these 
same  meek  eyes  that  all  the  world  misread  this 
man.     In  brow  and  eyes  he  was  a  soft-hearted  phil- 
anthropist, such  as  are  easily  misled  and  gulled  with 
exaggerated  tales  of  woe.     A  man  to  take  up  some 
impossible    scheme   to  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  a 
class  or  kind,  to  busy  himself  unprofitably  in  a 
crusade  against  class  privileges  and  uphold  the  so- 
called  rights  of  a  victimized  working  population. 
But  from  the  eyes  downward  this  was  all  lost,  and 
there   were  other  signs   instead.     The  nose  was 
straight    and   somewhat    small,    while    the  lips, 
though  clean-shaven,  were  entirely  devoid  of  any 
suggestion  of  coarsness,  such  as  one  may  read  upon 
the  mouths  of  most  men  past  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
unless  a  mustache   charitably  hide   such   failnig. 
The  mouth  was  almost  too  severe  in  its  clean  curve  : 
in  repose  it  was  Napoleonic^  in  gaiety  it  lost  all 


to  SUSPEATSE. 

hardness.  The  chin,  again,  was  square  and 
slightly  prominent.  To  judge  from  nose  and  lips 
and  oliin,  this  new-comer  had  been  intended  for 
a  soldier,  but  the  meek  eyes  disturbed  this  theory. 
His  face  was  brown,  of  a  complexion  which  by 
reason  of  its  nnchangeableness  never  betrayed 
thought,  emotion,  or  physical  pain.  That  his  life 
had  been  chiefly  spent  in  the  open  air  was  discern- 
ible from  his  bearing  and  appearance,  yet  his 
manner  (more  especially  with  ladies)  was  that  of 
a  polished  courtier.  Judging  from  outward 
things,  one  could  not  help  feeling  that  Theodore 
Trist  was  an  exceptional  man  in  some  way  or 
other,  in  sport  or  work,  in  deed  or  thought.  Ilis 
broad,  pensive  brow  Avould  seem  to  indicate  a 
literary  or  poetic  tendancy,  while  the  meek  eyes 
spoke  of  a  great  love  for  Nature  and  her  unfuthom- 
ahle  ways.  The  man  might  easily  have  been  a 
naturalist  or  a  vague  day-dreamer,  dabbling  in  the 
writer's  art.  Certain  it  was  that  he  could  only 
be  a  specialist  of  some  description.  No  universal- 
ity could  exist  behind  those  gentle  eyes.  Certain 
also,  it  would  seem,  that  he  trod  in  tlie  paths  of 
peace  where'er  he  went.  His  gentle  movements, 
his  calm,  soft  speech,  were  almost  womanlike. 
But  then  these  indications  ran  full  tilt  against  the 
soldierly  frame  and  the  still  hard  lips.  Tlie  most 
discerning  physiognomist  would  not  have  dared  to 
say  that  those  gentle  eyes  had  looked  upon  more 
bloodshed  than  any  warrior  of  the  day  ;  that  the 
brown  ears  had  been  torn  by  more  human  shrieks 
of  utter  agony  than  any  army-surgeon  has  ever 
listened  to.  This  man  of  peace  was  the  finest, 
ablest,  truest  chronicler  of  a  battle  tliat  ever  scrib- 
bled notes  amidst  the  battle  smoke.  Few  of  ns 
find  the  exact  groove  for  which  we  were  created^ 


THE  exception:  it 

and  Trist  was  no  more  fortunate  than  the  rest. 
Many  a  good  soldier  had  spent  his  life  in  the 
counting-house,  while  there  are  unmbers  wearing 
a  red  coat  to-day  whose  place  is  in  the  pulpit. 
Theodore  Trist  was  a  born  soldier,  if  ever  man  was 
born  with  military  genius  in  his  soul.  Had  his 
natural  turn  of  intellect  been  in  any  other  direc- 
tion, he  could,  in  later  life,  have  followed  it,  but 
the  British  army  is  constructed  upon  a  system 
which  forces  achild  to  grasp  the  sword  (metaphor- 
ically, if  not  in  deed)  before  his  fingers  have  learned 
the  shape  of  hilt,  or  pen,  or  brush.  Consequentl}-, 
our  forces  are  officered  by  a  fine  stalwart  body  of 
gentlemen,  who  arc,  some  of  them,  parsons — 
some  artists,  some  farmers,  some  sailors,  some  sol- 
diers— and  a  good  many  mere  idlers.  This  is  no 
cheap  sarcasm,  nor  is  it  the  ready  complaint  of  the 
British  universalist,  who  writes  on  the  least  prov- 
ocation to  the  newspapers  upon  subjects  of 
which  his  knowledge  is  culled  from  other  news- 
papers. I  am  not  finding  fault,  nor  would  I  sug- 
gest off-hand  a  complete  scheme  for  reorganizing 
what  I  have  always  been  taught  to  consider  the 
finest  military  force  in  the  world.  It  is  merely  an 
observation,  made  with  the  view  of  rendering  ob- 
vious the  reason  why  Theodore  Trist  was  not  a 
soldier.  He  found  out  his  groove  too  late  in  life, 
voila  tout.  Moreover,  he  found  that  it  was  like 
the  queue  at  the  pit-door  of  a  French  theater. 
One  cannot  enter  in  the  middle,  and  it  is  of  little 
use  taking  the  last  place  if  the  door  be  open  and 
others  crowding  on  in  front. 

Far  from  this  humble  pen  be  it  to  libel  the 
gentlemen  who  have  professed  themselves  ready 
to  lay  down  their  lives  for  the  rights  of  their 
country.     They  are  good  soldiers,  brave  men,  and 


M  SUSPENSE, 

what  is  tersely  called  upon  the  Continent  hardy 
companions;  but  sometimes  I  liave  found  inside  a 
red  coat  a  parson,  au  artist,  a  farmer,  or  a  sailor. 
Whatever  dreams  may  have  flitted  tlirough  the 
boy's  head,  tlie  man  Theo  Trist  never  spoke  of  his 
unfortunate  mistake.  It  would  be  better  termed 
a  mishap,  because  he  made  no  choice  of  the 
Church,  but  was  urged  into  it  by  a  zealous  and 
short-sighted  mother.  He  did  not,  however, 
reach  ordination.  Before  that  final  step  was 
taken  his  mother  died,  and  all  Europe  stood  hushed 
in  the  presence  of  a  mighty  war  impending.  The 
war-clouds  rolled  up  and  gathered  force.  Men 
spoke  in  lowered  voices  of  the  future  ;  women 
trembled  and  concealed  the  newspapers  from  their 
children.  A  dread  thirst  for  blood  seemed  to 
parch  the  throats  of  soldiers,  and  statesmen  hesi- 
tated upon  the  brink  of  a  terrible  responsibility. 
Commerce  was  hindered,  and  sailors  went  to  sea 
with  uneasy  hearts.  Then  arose  in  the  soul 
of  Theo  Trist — the  Oxford  undergraduate — a 
strange,  burning  unrest.  As  a  dog  raises  his 
head  with  quick  glance  and  parted  fangs  at  the 
approach  of  game,  so  leapt  this  man's  heart  in  his 
breast.  But  no  one  knew  of  this  ;  his  benevolent 
brow  and  gentle  eyes  misled  them  all. 

"When  at  last  the  quick  defiance  was  hurled 
from  one  nation  to  another.  Theodore  Trist  dis- 
appeared. The  sound  of  battle  drew  him  away 
from  peaceful  England  to  that  fair  country  by 
the  Rhine  where  blood  has  been  sucked  into  the 
fertile  earth  to  grow  again  into  deadly  hatred. 
The  din  and  roarand  fury  of  battle  was  this  mild- 
eyed  man's  element.  The  sulphureous  smoke  of 
cannon  was  tho  breath  of  life  to  him.  His  walk 
was   upon  the  sodden,   slippery   field  of  blood, 


THE  EXCEI'TIOM:  23 

And  yet  through  it  all  there  went  the  strange  in- 
congruity of  his  being.  In  the  wild  joy  of  fight- 
ing (which  carries  men  out  from  themselves  and 
transforms  them  into  new  strange  beings),  Trist 
never  lost  his  gentle  demeanor.  The  plucky 
Frenchmen,  with  whom  he  spent  that  terrible  win- 
ter, laughed  at  him,  but  one  and  all  ended  their 
merriment  with  upraised  finger  and  grave,  assur- 
ing eyes. 

"  Mais,"  they  said  compensatingly,  ''  d'un 
courage  .  .  ."  and  the  sentence  finished  up  v/ith 
a  shrug  and  outspread  hands,  indicating  that  the 
courage  of  ''ce  drole  Trist"  was  practically  with- 
out bounds. 

And  yet  ho  did  not  actually  fight  with  sword 
and  rifle.  The  pen  was  his  arm  and  weapon.  In 
two  languages  he  wrote  througli  all  that  campaign 
the  brave  record  of  a  losing  fight.  While  endeav- 
oring to  give  a  somewhat  unchivalrous  enemy  his 
due,  he  made  no  denial  of  partisanship.  The  ease 
and  fluency  with  which  he  expressed  himself  in 
French  excluded  all  hope  of  that,  and  Trist 
frankly  arrayed  himself  on  the  side  of  the  losing 
nation.  Finally  he  occupied  with  perfect  serenity 
the  anomalous  position  of  a  non-combatant  who 
ran  a  soldier's  risk — a  neutral  totally  unprotected, 
and  unrecognized  as  such — an  English  war-cor- 
respondent who,  of  his  own  free  will,  refused  to 
lay  himself  under  the  obligations  entailed  by  pro- 
tection. 

Thus  this  half-fledged  parson  feathered  his 
wings.  Destined  to  preach  peace,  he  suddenly 
turned  and  taught  war.  In  two  countries  simul- 
taneously he  made  a  brilliant  name,  proving  that  if 
he  could  not  fight,  because  the  possession  of  a 
fighting  soul  had  become  known  to  him  too  late 


24  SUSPENSE. 

ill  life,  he  could  at  least  watch  others  battliug  as 
no  inan  of  his  age  could  watch. 

Whcu  at  length  Paris  had  fallen,  an  emaciated, 
pale-faced  Englishman  turned  his  back  upon  the 
demoralized  capital  and  sought  his  native  land. 
His  groove  in  life  had  been  found.  Theodore 
Trist  was  a  born  chronicler  of  battle-tields,  a  sub- 
tle strategist,  a  lost  general — in  throe  words,  an 
ideal  war-correspondent.  His  great  knowledge  of 
his  subject,  his  instinctive  diviiuition  of  men's  mo- 
tives, and  his  exceptional  good-breeding,  saved 
him  from  the  many  pitfalls  that  usually  lie  con- 
cealed in  the  puth  of  all  who  follow  an  army-c.-orps 
without  occupying  a  post  thereiii.  He  was  never 
in  the  way,  never  indiscreet,  never  iiii]nisitive. 
and,  above  all,  neverself-opinionated.  He  watched 
war  as  a  lover  of  war,  not  as  a  self-constituted  rep- 
resentative of  a  hypercritical  nation.  The  spirit 
of  competition  did  notv/ith  him  override  thesenso 
of  patriotism,  simply  because  such  a  spirit  in  no 
wise  affected  him.  He  went  his  own  way,  and 
struck  out  a  line  of  his  own,  never  seeking  to  be 
before  his  compeers  with  news  or  guesses.  Con- 
sequently his  position  was  unicpie — Miidway  be- 
tween a  war-correspondent  and  a  warlike  historian, 
for  his  writings  on  the  battle-field  were  nothing 
less  than  history. 

So  Trist  returned  to  England  and  found  himself 
famous.  Upon  every  bookstall  in  the  kingdom 
he  found  a  small  red  vobinip  of  his  letters  collocied 
from  the  columns  of  the  journal  he  had  represented 
during  the  great  unfinished  war. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days  he  called  upon  his 
various  friends — Mrs.  Wvlie  among  the  first ; 
Alice  and  Brenda  Gilholme,  at  the  residence  of 
their  aunt,  Mrs.   (lilholme,  shortly  afterward.     It 


THE  EXCEPTION.  25 

xv^as  about  this  time  that  Brenda  conceived  the 
idea  that  Theo  Trist  loved  her  sister.  He  waa 
ouiy  one  among  many,  but  he  was  difi'erent  from 
the  rest,  and  the  young  girl,  for  the  first  time, 
blamed  her  sister  seriously.  She  kept  these  tilings 
in  her  heart,  however,  and  said  nothing,  because 
there  was  nothing  tangible  ;  nothing  to  authorize 
her  speaking  to  Alice.  If  Trist  had  fallen  a  vic- 
tim to  the  facinations  of  the  light-hearted  coquette, 
he  certainly  concealed  his  feelings  most  jealousl}j. 

Brenda  fully  recognized  that  the  fact  of  his 
being  less  light-hearted,  less  cheerful  than  of  old, 
might  easily  be  accounted  for  by  the  horrors 
through  which  he  had  passed  during  the  late 
months  ;  but  there  was  something  else.  There 
was  another  change  which  had  come  over  him 
since  his  return. 

While  she  was  still  watching  and  wondering, 
Theo  Trist  suddenly  vanished,  and  soon  afterward 
there  broke  out  a  small  war  in  the  Far  East.  Like 
a  vulture  he  had  scented  blood,  and  was  on  the 
spot  by  the  time  that  the  news  of  hostilities  had 
reached  England.  He  never  wrote  private  letters, 
but  his  work  in  the  new  field  of  battle  was  closely 
watched  by  the  small  circle  of  friends  at  home. 
As  usual,  his  letters  attracted  attention,  and  peo- 
ple talked  vaguelv  of  this  wonderful  war-corre- 
spondent—vaguelv  because  he  was  personally  un- 
known. His  individuality  was  nothing  to  the 
warlike  host  of  men  who  follow  events  quietly  at 
home  with  a  half-defined  thrill  of  envy  in  their 
hearts — for  every  Englishman  has  a  secret  love  of 
war,  a  well-concealed  longing  to  be  fighting  some- 
thing or  some  one. 

When  he  returned,  Alice  Gilholme  was  married, 
and  Brenda  had  to  tell  hira  of  it.     No  surprise. 


»6  SUSPENSE. 

no  signs  of  discomfiture  were  visible  in  the  man's 
incongruous  face,  where  strength  and  weakness 
were  strangely  mixed.     He  inquired  keenly  and 

gractically  about  settlements,  expressed  a  gentle 
ope  that  Alice  Avould  be  happy,  and  changed  the 
subject. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A    PROBLEM. 

Trist  approached  Mrs.  Wylie  M'ith  slow  and 
almost  timid  steps,  yet  there  Avas  nothing  apolo- 
getic in  his  demeanor,  for  he  was  perfectly  self- 
possessed,  and  even  reposeful,  Avith  that  quiet 
assurance  which  only  comes  with  innate  good- 
breeding. 

In  his  two  hands  he  carried  a  fine  stout  salmon 
with  a  sharp  snout.  Its  dark  lips  curled  upward 
with  an  evil  twist,  and  even  in  death  its  eyes  wero 
full  of  fight. 

The  lady  dropped  her  book  upon  her  lap  and 
looked  up  with  a  smile.  In  her  eyes  there  was  a 
kindly  and  yet  scrutinizing  look  which  was  almost 
motherly  in  its  discernment.  This  young  man 
was  eviJently  more  to  her  than  the  rest  of  his 
kind.  She  knew  his  impassive  face  so  well  that 
she  could  read  where  others  saw  an  unwritten 
page. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  with  some  interest  (for  she  was 
a  sportsman's  wife,  "  that  is  a  good  fish,  Theo  ! '* 

"  Yes,"  he  acquiesced  in  a  soft  and  rather  mono- 
tonous voice,  harmonizing  v/ith  his  eyes.  "He 
is  a  fine  fellow.     We  had  a  desperate  fight  ! " 


J  PROBLEM.  ay 

As  if  to  prove  the  severity  of  the  struggle,  he 
looked  dowa  at  his  knees,  which  were  muddy,  and 
then  held  out  his  right  hand,  which  was  streaked 
with  blood. 

"  Ah,  how  nasty !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wylie 
pleasantly.     ''Is  it  yours  or  his  ?" 

*'  Mine,  I  think.     Yes,  it  must  be  mine." 

Brenda  had  approached  slowly,  and  was  stand- 
ing close  to  him.  She  stooped  a  little  to  examine 
the  fish,  which  he  held  toward  her  with  his  left 
hand,  and  even  deigned  to  poke  it  critically  on 
the  shoulder  with  her  straight  white  finger. 

*'  Are  you  hurt  ?  "  she  inquired  casually,  with- 
out looking  up. 

A  slow  gleam  of  humor  lighted  up  Trist's  soft 
and  melancholy  eyes  as  lie  looked  down  at  her. 

*'  He  cannot  answer  for  himself,"  he  said  sug- 
gestively. '•'  But  I  think  I  can  volunteer  the 
information  that  he  is  not  hurt  now.  He  died 
the  death  of  a  plucky  fish,  and  did  not  flinch." 

"  I  meant  you." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  no,  I  am  not  hurt,  thank  you.  Only 
very  dirty,  very  sanguinary,  and  quite  happy." 

At  this  moment  the  steward,  a  dapper  and  noise- 
less man  with  no  appeai-ance  of  a  sailor,  came  up 
and  took  the  fish  from  Trist's  hands.  Mrs.  Wylie 
returned  to  her  book,  and  the  two  young  people 
stood  silently  in  front  of  her.  Presently  they 
moved  away  as  if  with  one  accord,  farther  aft,  be- 
side the  wheel.  Here  Brenda  seated  herself  side- 
ways with  one  arm  round  the  white  awning-stan- 
chion. 

She  looked  up,  and,  as  he  happened  to  be  gaz- 
ing gently  down  at  her,  their  eyes  met.  There 
was  no  instant  withdrawal,  no  change  of  expres- 
aion.     These  two  were  evidently  very  old  friends. 


aS  St/SPBJVSE. 

because  a  young  man  and  a  maiden  rarely  look 
into  each  other's  eyes  for  any  appreciable  space  of 
time  without  some  sliglit  change  of  expression 
supervening. 

rheo  Trist  smiled  at  length,  and  looked  away 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  glanced  down  at  her  face 
again. 

"Well?"  ho  said  interrogatively.  "You  are 
going  to  make  one  of  those  deep  remarks  which 
would  take  away  the  breath  of  some  people." 

She  smiled,  but  did  not  turn  away  in  maidenly 
reserve.  Indeed,  she  continued  to  watch  his  face, 
wonderingly  and  absently. 

"  What  a  peculiar  man  you  are,  Theo  I  " 

He  bowed  politely,  and  slipping  the  ends  of  his 
fingers  into  either  trouser-pocket,  he  stood  deG- 
antly  before  her,  with  his  unshod  feet  set  well 
apart. 

"  And  you,  Brenda  ...  I  have  never  met  any 
one  in  any  way  like  you." 

But  she  had  no  intention — this  independent 
little  person — of  being  led  away  thus  from  the 
original  question. 

"Sometimes  I  almost  dislike  you  .  .  .  and  at 
other  moments  I  admire  your  character  very 
ranch." 

She  was  quite  grave,  and  loolced  up  at  him  anx- 
iously as  if  the  character  of  some  third  person 
very  near  and  dear  to  them  both  were  under  dis- 
cussion. 

"  When  do  you  dislike  me?"  he  asked  in  his 
monotonous,  gentle  way. 

To  this  she  made  no  answer  for  some  moments, 
but  sat  looking  thoughtfully  across  the  deep- 
bosomed  water,  which  was  now  almost  glassy,  for 
the  breeze  had  dropped  with  the  yetting  sun.    She 


^  PROBLEM.  I<> 

waa  frowning  slightly,  and  leant  her  chin  npon 
her  hand,  which  action  gave  additional  thought- 
fulness  to  her  well-read  face.  She  might  have 
been  solving  some  great  problem.  Indeed,  sbo 
was  attempting  to  find  an  explanation  to  the 
greatest  problem,  we  have  to  solve.  This  foolish 
little  maiden,  with  all  her  great  and  mistaken 
learning,  her  small  experience  and  deep,  search- 
ing mind,  was  trying  to  explain  hnman  nature. 
Not  in  its  entirety,  but  one  small,  insignificant 
example  taken  from  the  whole.  She  was  trying 
to  reduce  this  man  to  an  orderly  classification  of 
motives,  desires,  and  actions  ;  and  he  stood  defy- 
ing her  to  do  so.  She  wanted  to  understand  Theo 
Tnst.  In  faith,  she  did  not  ask  for  much  !  An 
educated  and  refined  gentleman,  an  experienced 
and  time-hardened  man.  A  philosopher  without 
a  creed.  A  soldier  without  a  sword.  A  soft  heart 
that  sought  bloodshed.  Brenda  had  undertaken 
a  very  large  task.  She  might  have  begun  upon 
the  simplest,  most  open-hearted  sailor-man  in  tho 
forecastle,  and  yet  I  am  sure  that  he  would  liavo 
failed.  With  Theo  Trist  she  could  do  nothing. 
Does  any  one  of  us  understand  his  brother,  his 
sister,  his  mother  or  his  wife  ?  Scarcely,  I  think. 
This  only  I  know,  that  I  have  never  yet  qaito 
understood  any  human  being.  There  are  some — 
indeed,  there  are  many — whom  I  have  been  pleased 
to  consider  as  an  open  book  before  my  discerning 
gaze,  but  Time  has  changed  all  that.  lie  has 
proved  that  I  knew  remarkably  little  about  the 
printed  matter  in  that  open  book. 

Trist  repeated  his  question  : 

"  When  do  you  dislike  me,  Brenda  ?  " 

Her  reply  was  somewhat  indirect. 

**  At  times,"  she  said,  without  looking  toward 


JO  SUSPENSE. 

him,  *'' you  attempt  wilfully  to  misrepresent  your- 
self, and  I  cannot  quite  see  wliy  you  should  wish 
to  do  80.  You  said  just  now  that  you  were  very 
sanguinary  and  quite  happy.  You  meant  to  con- 
vey a  deeper  meaning,  I  know,  because  you  glanced 
involuntarily  toward  me  to  see  if  I  had  caught  it. 
Now,  why  should  you  pretend  to  bo  a  hard- 
hearted, cruel  and  cold-blooded  man  ?  That  is 
what  I  do  not  understand.'' 

She  shook  her  small  head  despairingly,  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  very  shadowy  smilei 
There  was  no  question  implied  in  the  tone  of  her 
voice.  Slio  showed  clearly  that  she  expected  no 
answer.  It  was  merely  her  recital  of  a  difficulty 
encountered  in  the  study  of  a  problem.  This 
problem  was  the  character  of  the  man  standing 
before  her,  the  only  man  of  her  own  age,  and 
among  her  friends,  to  whose  intellect  her  own 
was  content  to  bow.  To  him  she  talked  of  many 
strange  undiscussed  matters,  and  together  they 
had  waded  very  deeply  into  questions  which  were 
opened  centuries  ago,  and  are  now  no  nearer  their 
solution.  It  was  not  that  Theo  Trist  was  a  super- 
naturally  grave  man,  but  Brenda  felt  instinctively 
that  ho  would  never  laugh  at  her.  He  was  a  good" 
and  careful  listener  ;  moreover,  she  had  never  yet 
propounded  a  question,  in  her  vague,  half-wistful 
way,  about  which  he  did  not  know  something  ; 
upon  which  he  could  not  put  forward,  in  his  gen- 
tle and  suggestive  way,  an  opinion  whirh  was 
either  the  result  of  his  own  thoughts  or  of  those 
of  other  men. 

"  Everything  is  a  matter  of  habit,"  said  the 
mill! -eyed  sportsman  vaguely. 

He  knew  that  stie  was  not  thinkinir  about  sal- 
mon-fishing and   its   cruelty   at  all,  but  of   the 


A  PROBLEM.  31 

jtrange  iQcongrnitj  of  his  profession.  He  was 
■well  aware  tliat  Brenda  Gilholme,  iu  her  brave 
little  heart,  disapproved  of  his  calling.  Of  war 
and  its  horrors  she  rarely  spoke,  for  she  felt  that 
his  existence  was  necessarily  bound  to  such  things. 
It  was  a  gift  vouchsafed  with  a  reckless  disregard 
for  incongruity  which  could  only  be  providential 
— this  gift  of  a  <jvarlike  pen.  He  stood  alone,  far 
above  his  compeers,  the  one  man  who  could  write, 
in  French  and  English  alike,  of  war ;  and  Avhile 
respecting  his  undoubted  intellect,  she  would  fain 
have  brought  all  the  force  of  her  will  to  bear  upon 
him  and  urge  him  from  the  exercise  of  it  on  the 
field  of  battle.  She  was  influenced  by  the  strong 
horror  of  a  refined  and  gentle  woman  for  all  things 
akin  to  violence  and  bloodshed,  and  she  could  not 
believe  that  in  his  heart  of  hearts  the  soft-eyed, 
quiet  man  loved  the  sight  of  blood  and  the  smoky 
grime  of  battle. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Endurance  may  be  a 
matter  of  habit,  but  why  seek  that  which  requires 
endurance  ?" 

He  attempted  to  keep  the  question  within  the 
bounds  of  a  sporting  matter. 

"  Every  living  thing  in  creation  is  by  the  laws 
of  creation  expected  to  prey  upon  some  other  liv- 
ing thing.  By  a  merciful  provision  we  men  can- 
not quite  look  at  the  question  from  the  salmon's 
point  of  view.  It  is  a  fight— an  unfair  fight,  I 
admit — but  still  there  is  no  wanton  cruelty  in 
killing  salmon." 

He  ceased  abruptly,  and  held  up  his  arm,  look- 
ing at  it  critically.  There  was  a  deep  scratch 
across  the  wrist  from  which. the. blood  had  trickled 
in  several  rivulets  and  congealed  upon  the  back  of 
his  slim  brown  hand.     Looking  up,  he  saw  that 


32  SUSPENSE. 

she  was  gazing  at  the  wounded  limb,  and  with  a 
slight  apologetic  smile  he  put  it  behind  his  back 
BO  as  to  conceal  it  from  her  eyes. 

"The  actual  sight  of  blood,"  he  continued, 
"  whether  it  be  cold  from  the  salmon  or  warm 
from  one's  own  veins,  is  a  mere  technical  unpleas- 
antness which  soon  loses  its  horror  .  .  .  for  men.** 

'•  I  was  not  thinking  of  .salmoi-fishing," 

*'  Nor  I,"  he  replied  with  cool  audacity. 

There  was  another  long  pause,  during  which 
neither  moved.  It  was  not<nvorthy  that  Trist, 
who  had  been  on  his  legs  in  rough  water,  and  over 
rocky  country,  since  early  morning,  showed  no 
Kign  of  fatigue.  If  ho  had  so  desired,  it  would 
have  been  easy  enough  for  him  to  bring  forward 
one  of  the  low  chairs  standing  near  the  skylight, 
but  he  appeared  to  prefer  standing. 

"  But  m  losing  that  sense  of  horror,"  asked 
Brenda  presentlv,  "do  not  men  become  brutal- 
ized ?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  perceptibly. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  he  inquired  significantly. 

The  question  was  cleverly  thrown  back  upon 
her,  but  Brenda  intended  to  get  her  answer.  iShe 
looked  up  with  a  passing  smile,  and  made  him  a 
little  pout  with  her  pretty  lips. 

"  You  are  no  criterion.  You  are  different 
altogether.     I  was  speaking  generally." 

"  Speaking  generally,  I  should  still  be  of  opinion 
that  men  are  not  affected  in  any  harmful  way  by 
seeing  .  .   .  unpleasant  sights." 

'•'  From  a  sportsman's  point  of  view  only  ?  '' 

"No." 

"  From  a  war-correspondent's  point  of  view  ?  " 
ghe  persisted,    ' 

''Yea," 


A  PROBLEM.  33 

"  And  if  anybody  on  earth  should  know/' sho 
murmured  half  to  herself,  "I  think  you  should." 

He  turned  away  a  little,  and  then  looked  down 
in  an  absently  interested  manner  at  the  wet  im- 
pression of  his  own  waders  on  the  white  deck. 

''  Yes,"  he  acquiesced  with  a  little  checked  sigli  ; 
'*  if  anybody  on  earth  should  know,  I  am  the 
man." 

'•'  I  wonder  why  you  do  it,  Theo  ?" 

''Who  knows  ?  I  supjjose  it  is  because  I  can- 
not help  it.  I  am  a  vulture,  Brenda  !  The  smell 
of  ...  of  battle  draws  irresistibly." 

*'  It  is  a  fault  in  your  character,"  she  said 
judicially. 

This  he  denied  by  a  shake  of  his  head. 

"It  is  a  fault  in  human  nature." 

She  said  nothing,  but  expressed  her  desire  to 
differ  by  an  incredulous  look.  Iler  knowledge  of 
mankind  was  very  limited,  after  all,  or  she  would 
never  have  doubted  the  truth  of  his  assertion. 
She  did  not  know  then  (how  should  she  so  soon) 
that  men  are  naturally  cruel,  that  women  are  nat- 
urally crueller.  In  her  innocence  she  imagined 
that  the  majority  of  us  are  brave  but  gentle,  strong 
but  forbearing,  kind,  chivalrous,  unselfish.  While 
speaking  in  generalities  she  was  making  the  com- 
mon foolish  mistake  we  make  every  day.  Sho 
fondly  imagined  that  her  thoughts  were  general, 
whereas  they  were  lamentably  individual.  Human 
nature — the  broad  classification  so  glibly  falling 
from  her  lips — was  nothing  more  important,  noth- 
ing wider  in  its  compass,  than  the  two  words  Theo 
Trist. 

"  You  will  admit,"  he  argued,  ''that  war  is  a 
necessary  evil." 

"  Yes." 


34  SUSPEA'SE. 

''Then,  so  ami.  After  my  name  I  ought  by 
rights  to  put  the  two  letters  N.  E. — Theo  Trist, 
necessary  evil." 

*'  But,"'  she  said  with  unconscious  flattery,  "  you 
make  it  something  more  than  n  necessary  evil. 
You  turn  it  into  a  glorious  thing.  You  teach  that 
fighting  is  the  noblest  cailiiig  that  a  man  can  take 
up.  You  make  men  into  soldiers  against  their 
will,  and  .  .  .  and  you  make  Avomen  long  to  be 
men  that  they  might  be  soldiers." 

A  strange  look  came  into  the  gentle  eyes  that 
watched  her  then — a  look  that  was  almost  pain  ; 
but  it  vanished  again  instantly,  and  the  bland  face 
was  cold  and  imj)assive  at  once.  She  was  so  des- 
perately in  earnest  that  there  was  a  little  thrilling 
catch  in  her  voice.  She  seemed  to  be  half 
ashamed  of  her  own  sincerity,  and  did  not  raise 
her  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  that  I  consider  soldiering  the  finest  life  a  man 
can  lead." 

"And  yet,"  she  answered  with  unerring  memory, 
"  you  once  wrote  that  a  man  is  never  quite  the 
same  again  when  he  has  once  been  under  fire." 

Trist  moved  restlessly.  Whenever  she  made 
mention  of  his  work,  that  dull  restlessness  seemed 
to  come  over  him.  The  knowledge  that  his  writ- 
ing had  remained  engraved  upon  her  memory 
seemed  to  work  some  subtle  change  in  the  man. 
It  would  only  have  been  natural  for  him  to  feel 
some  pride  in  this  fact  whenever  she  betrayed  it ; 
but  tliis  was  not  pride  :  it  was  nearer  akin  to  pain 
or  regret. 

''  Yes,"  he  admitted  ;  "'  but  I  did  not  insinuate 
that  the  change  was  one  for  the  worse.  In  many 
cases  the  effect  is  distinctly  beneficial ;  in  a  few  it 


A  PROBLEM.  35 

is  brutalizing.  In  all  it  is  saddening.  A  man  who 
has  seen  much  war  ia  hardly  an  acquisition  in  a 
drawing-room." 

He  moved  away  a  few  paces,  and  leaning  out 
beneath  the  awning,  looked  toward  the  head  of 
the  fjord,  where  the  river  came  bowling  down  the 
yalley  past  Nielsen's  house. 

"  There  is  the  Admiral,"  he  said,  "  coming  ofif 
in  Nielsen's  boat.  I  wonder  what  sport  he  has 
had." 

Brenda  also  left  her  seat  upon  the  rail  and  looked 
across  the  water.  In  doing  so  she  came  nearer  to 
her  companion,  and  her  dress  touched  his  wounded 
hand. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  she  said,  as  if  reminded  of 
his  mishap,  ''  that  you  are  Jiot  hurt  ?  Shall  I 
sponge  your  hand  ?  I  am  not  afraid  of  ...  of 
it." 

He  laughed  in  a  pleasant  and  heartless  way. 

"Oh  no,  thanks  !  I  will  wash  it  in  the  ordinary 
way.  It  is  only  a  scratch  ;  I  ought  to  have  washed 
it  before  presenting  myself  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  speculatively,  and  made  a 
little  hopeless  movement  with  her'shoulders. 

*'  You  are  sometimes  most  aggravatingly  inde- 
pendent." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  in  a  hard,  practical  way. 
"  Independence  is  a  necessity.  If  I  have  thesfift 
of  if,  I  cannot  cultivate  it  too  assiduously.  With- 
out independence  I  should  be  nowhere.'' 

"  And  yet  it  can  be  carried  to  undue  excess.  A 
man  should  sometimes  pretend,  I  think,  to  be  a 
trifle  dependent  upon  others,  and  especially  upon 
women.  It  is  the  least  he  can  do  for  them,  pos- 
sessing, as  he  does,  the  advantage  in  existence. 
One  could  almost  tell  from  your  little  waya  and 


36  SUSPE^/SE. 

habits  of  thought,  Theo,   that  your  mother  died 
long  ago." 

*'  You  mean  that  we  should  ask  our  women-folk 
to  do  little  things  for  us  which  we  know  quite  well 
we  could  do  better  ourselves." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  thus,"  he  suggested,  '*  satisfy  their  per- 
sonal vanity." 

Brenda  did  not  answer  him  at  once.  The  ques- 
tion required  consideration. 

"Yes,"  she  replied  at  length,  ''and  thus  sat- 
isfy their  personal  vanity.  There  is  no  object  to 
be  gained  by  concealing  the  fact  that  our  happi- 
ness in  life  is  merely  a  question  of  satisfied  vanity, 
from  the  very  beginning  to  the  very  end." 

'*  From  a  new  pair  of  woolen  boots  to  a  long 
funeral  procession  of  empty  carriages  ?  "  added 
Trist,  with  meek  interrogation. 

"  Women  do  not  ho  a  rule  go  to  their  graves 
before  a  number  of  bored  coachmen  and  empty 
broughams." 

"  Most  of  them  would  like  to." 

"  Y'es  ;  I  am  afraid  you  are  right.  But  we 
seem  to  take  it  for  granted  tliat  men  allow  us  a 
monopoly  of  vanity. 

"  Oh  no  !  "  Trist  hastened  to  correct  ;  "  you 
only  possess  the  monopoly  of  one  description. 
Yours  is  a  thirsty  vanity  whi(^h  knows  no  vslaking  ; 
ours  is  satisfied.  Of  the  two,  yours,  mademoiselle, 
is  less  objectionable.  I  suppose  independence  or 
self-dependence  is  mv  pet  vanity." 

"Yes,  Theo,  it  is." 

"  And  yours  ?" 

"  I  am  all  vanity." 

Trist  laughed  derisively — a  laugh,  however, 
which  was  inaudible  across  the  deck. 


A  STORM.  37 

She  tnrned  and  walked  slowly  forward  to  meet 
the  Admiral,  whose  boat  was  dropping  alongside. 

'■  Don't  laugh,"  she  said,  almost  angrily  ;  **  it 
is  true." 

**Then,"  he  said  gravely,  "1  will  endeavor  to 
satisfy  you  by  asking  you  to  sew  ou  the  very  next 
button  that  conies  off. 

For  a  moment  she  lost  her  gravity,  and  was  a 
simple,  sweetly  coquettish  girl. 

'  And  I  will  refuse  flatly,"  she  observed  saucily. 


a 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A    STOEM. 

The  short  northern  night  lay  over  the  peaceful 
fjord.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  air  except  the 
soft  murmurous  voice  of  the  river  and  the  distant 
prattle  of  a  tiny  waterfall. 

The  Hermione,  wrapt  in  utter  darkness  (for  the 
Admiral  would  allow  no  riding-light,  having  had 
enoucrh  of  red-tape  routine  during  his  service  be- 
neath the  white  ensign),  lay  motionless  upon  the 
glassy  water. 

From  the  open  port-holes  came  light  and  a 
sound  of  music.  In  the  comfortable  and  home- 
like saloon  Brenda  was  at  the  piano  ;  Mrs.  Wylie 
worked  placidly,  and  the  two  men  smoked  in  rest- 
ful silence.  That  sweet  fatigue  and  utter  sense 
of  peacefulness  which  is  the  reward  of  a  hard,  un- 
sparing day  had  come  over  them.  The  Admiral 
had  caught  his  two  fish  over  again,  and  his  pleas- 
ant, garrulous  voice  was  still.      He  was  now  in- 


3^  SUSPENSE. 

dining  to  slumber,  lying  back  drowsily  in  his  deep 
cliair. 

Trist,  a  model  of  cleanliness,  and  broadcloth 
over  the  whitest  linen,  was  in  a  less  easy  pose,  for 
he  was  seated  at  the  cabin-table  before  a  Hugo 
volume  of  travel.  His  brown  hands  lay  quiescent 
upon  the  open  pages ;  his  eyes  were  riveted  on 
the  printed  Imes.  Although  he  was  to  all  appear- 
ances immersed  in  his  study,  he  was  the  first  to 
hear  a  difference  in  the  sounds  of  night  outside. 
He  raised  his  head  and  looked  towards  the  port- 
hole, half  hidden  by  a  tiny  muslin  curtain  scarcely 
moving  in  the  draught.  Without,  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  there  was  now  a  long  continuous  whisper 
like  the  voice  of  a  summer  breeze  amidst  half- 
formed  leaves.  This  was  the  ripple  of  a  new-born 
breath  upon  the  waters,  and  within  it  there  was 
the  hum  of  air  rushing  through  taut  rigging. 
Tho  breeze  was  a  fresh  one.  Brenda  continued 
playing,  unconscious  of  these  signs.  Her  fingers 
wandered  over  the  keys  dreamily,  while  her  up- 
right form  swayed  in  no  slightest  degree  to  the 
rhythm  of  her  music.  It  would  seem  tbat  she 
could  wring  from  tho  old  piano  plaintive  harmo- 
nies full  of  sadness  and  suggestive  melancholy  with- 
out becoming  in  any  way  affected  by  their  influ- 
ence. For  a  woman  she  was  exceptionally  self- 
contained  and  nndomonstrative. 

Trist  continnoil  gazing  through  the  open  port- 
hole. It  was  now  quite  dark  outside — darker  than 
the  thin  veil  of  night  in  such  a  latitude  would 
account  for  during  July.  Presoutly  tlie  reason  of 
it  was  apparent  and  audible.  There  came  a  rush- 
ing sound  like  the  approach  of  a  train  in  a  deep 
cutting,  and  the  TTermione  was  enveloped  in  it. 

"Bain!''    exclainiod  Brenda,  swinging  round 


A  STORAf.  39 

on  the  mnsic-stool.     The  Admiral  was  asleep,  and 
Trist   merely    nodded  his  head   in  acquiescence. 

Mrs.  Wylie  ceased  workint^,  and  listened.  In  a 
few  moments  there  was  a  slight  creak  of  timber, 
and  the  small  vessel  heaved  perceptibly  beneath 
their  feet.  The  muslin  curtains  on  either  side  of 
the  small  port-holes  fluttered,  and  the  lamp  hang- 
ing beneath  the  open  skylight  flickered  repeatedly. 

Trist  rose  and  closed  the  ports.  His  movements 
awoke  Admiral  Wylie,  who  sat  up  in  his  deep 
chair  with  a  hand  on  either  knee. 

"A  squall  ?  "  he  inquired. 

'*'Yes,"  returned  Trist,  without  moving  away 
from  the  port-hole.  "  A  squall — rain — and 
thunder,  I  think." 

Even  while  he  spoke  a  green  light  flashed  out 
and  lighted  up  his  face  for  a  moment.  The 
thunder  soon  followed — a  long,  low,  growl,  dying 
away  into  distant  echoes. 

"  It  will  be  rather  fine  in  this  narrow  fjord,'* 
suggested  Trist  to  no  one  in  particular.  '*  I 
think  I  will  go  on  deck."' 

Mrs.  Wylie  looked  toward  Brenda  before  reply- 
ing. 

''  I  prefer  something  more  solid  than  an  awning 
between  me  and  a  thunderstorm,"  she  said  deci- 
sively. 

Brenda  rose  from  her  seat  and  looked  round  for 
a  shawl.  It  somehow  occurred  that,  wherever 
Mrs.  Wylie  happened  to  be,  a  warm  shawl  was  in- 
variablv  to  be  found  somewhere  in  proximity. 

"  I  think  I  will  go,"  said  the  girl  simply.  It 
did  not  seem  to  occur  to  her  that  there  could  be 
any  reason  why  she  should  not  go  on  deck  with 
Trist.  nor  did  '^she  appear  to  think  it  strange  that 
he  should  fail  to  suggest  it. 


40  SUSPENSE. 

He  came  to  her  side  and  dropped  the  shawl 
deftly  on  to  her  small,  square  shoulders,  and  then 
they  passed  out  of  the  saloon  together.  He  climbed 
the  narrow  com})anion-way  first,  and  turned  to 
assist  her  over  the  brass-plated  combing.  They 
were  welcomed  on  deck  by  a  blinding  flash,  which 
for  a  second  lighted  up  every  nook  and  corner  of 
the  fjord.  The  darkness  that  followed  was  almost 
stunning  in  its  utter  opaqueness.  Brenda  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  and  they  stood  side  by  side 
during  the  crackle  of  the  thunder.  When  the 
rumble  and  echo  of  it  had  died  away,  Trist  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "\  will  guide  you — I  know 
all  the  ring-bolts  on  the  deck." 

Then,  seeing  that  her  two  hands  were  wrapped 
in  the  shawl,  he  took  hold  of  her  wrist  through 
the  soft  wool  and  led  her  aft.  When  they  were 
half-way  across  the  deck  toward  the  skylight, 
where  there  was  a  seat,  there  came  a  tremendous 
crash.  A  blinding  yellow  flame  appeared  to  leap 
from  the  summit  of  the  mountain  above  them — 
a  flame  so  brilliant,  so  sudden,  and  so  grand,  that 
it  seemed  to  burn  into  their  eyes,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment paralyzed  their  brains.  It  was  impossible 
to  indicate  the  exact  spot  whence  came  that  wild 
electric  fire,  and  whither  it  went  no  man  could 
tell.  Simultaneously  the  heavy  atmosphere  burst 
and  vibrated  into  such  a  confusion  of  crackle, 
and  rumble,  and  distant  roar,  that  even  Theo 
Trist  staggered  and  caught  his  breath  con- 
vulsively. The  Hermione  quivered  beneath  their 
feet,  and  for  some  moments  they  could  not 
hear  the  steady  reassuring  splash  of  the  cold 
rain. 

When  Trist  recovered  liiniself  he  found  Brenda 


A  STORM.  41 

clinging  to  him.     She  had  abandoned  the  shawl, 
and  her  bare  arms  were  upon  his  sleeve. 

The  first  sound  that  she  heard  was  a  laugh. 
Her  first  sensation  was  one  of  warmth,  as  her 
companion  drew  the  soft  wrap  round  her  shoul- 
ders. The  thunder  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but 
a  low  murmur  seemed  to  run  through  the  moun- 
tains. Again  Trist  laughed  in  a  reassuring  way, 
as  men  laugh  when  they  are  still  standing  after 
the  first  volley  of  an  enemy,  when  the  memory 
of  the  grim  serrated  flash  of  a  thousand  rifles  is 
fresh  upon  their  minds. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  help  him  with  the 
shawl,  which  flattered  and  flapped  audibly  in  the 
breeze,  but  stood  with  idle,  hanging  arms  await- 
ing and  dreading  a  repetition  of  the  wild  anger 
of  heaven,  while  he  held  the  warm  shawl  round 
her  throat. 

*'  It  is  rather  grander  than  we  bargained  for," 
he  said  at  length,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
awoke  her. 

She  drew  the  wrap  closer  round  her,  and 
made  a  little  movement  as  if  to  continue  their 
way  aft. 

**'!  have  never  seen  or  heard  anything  like 
that!"  she  said  at  length,  half  apologetically, 
when  they  were  seated. 

Before  he  could  answer,  another  peal  of  thunder 
broke  over  the  mountains ;  and,  immediately 
after,  a  brilliant  flash  of  lightning  darted  down 
the  bare  face  of  the  clitf  opposite  to  them.  The 
sharp,  detonating  thunder  was  simultaneous,  and 
all  nature  seemed  to  quiver  and  vibrate.  This 
time  Brenda  showed  no  sign  of  fear,  but  sat 
motionless,  with  her  arms  folded  beneath  the 
ehawl.     Strange  to  say,  the  air  was  intensely  cold, 


4^  SUSPEJVSE. 

while  at  short  intervals  a  warmer  breath  camo 
rearing  down  the  valley.  With  the  colder  puffs 
there  fell  a  torrent  of  rain,  which  seethed  on  tho 
water  and  beat  with  a  dull,  continuous  rattle  on 
the  soaked  awning.  Where  tlioy  wore  seated, 
however,  no  splash  or  spray  could  reach  them. 

And  now  the  storm  began  to  move  away  down 
the  fjord.  In  an  incredibly  sliort  space  of  time 
the  heavy  black  clouds  rolled  aside,  and  tho  stars 
began  to  twinkle.  There  was  in  the  air  a  subtle 
scent  of  refreshed  verdure,  and  the  atraospiiero 
was  less  variable.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight,  to 
watch  tlie  clouds  creep  along  tho  summits  of  tlio 
mountains,  of  which  the  bare,  unlovely  outlino 
was  every  now  and  then  revealed  against  distant 
widespread  lightning.  At  intervals  there  arose 
low,  subsidiary  grumbles,  as  if  the  elements  wero 
partly  app  ;ased,  though  still  dangerous  to  trifle 
with.  Tiie  Hermione  seemed  ridiculously  small 
and  helpless  amidst  these  great  works  of  creation. 
Her  sturdy  spars,  standing  up  boldly  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  were  of  no  height  whatever  against  such 
towering  cliffs. 

At  length  Brenda  spoke.  She  was  by  no  means 
ashamed  of  her  momentary  terror  during  the  first 
wild  assault  of  the  storm.  Her  feeling  was  nearer 
akin  to  surprise  than  fear,  and  the  act  of  cling- 
ing to  her  companion  in  such  a  moment  did  not 
present  itself  to  her  in  a  very  heinous  light.  It 
was  a  natural  womanly  instinct  ;  she  was  half 
blinded  by  the  lightning,  almost  suffocated  by 
the  heavy  electricity  of  the  atmosphere.  Besides, 
they  were  such  old  friends.  In  bygone  years  they 
had  been  as  brother  and  sister,  exchanging  a  fra- 
ternal kiss  at  meeting  or  parting  ;  but  tbit  ^aa 
long,  long  ago. 


A  STORM.  43 

**  Courage,"  observed  Brenda  thonghtfuUy, 
"  would  be  a  difficult  thing  to  define." 

She  turned  and  looked  into  his  face  with  grave, 
questioning  eyes.  For  a  few  moments  he  was 
silent,  as  if  endeavoring  to  follow  out  her  train 
of  thought. 

"  You  cannot  reduce  that  to  a  science,'"  he  said 
at  length  conclusively. 

**  I  think  most  things  in  life  can  be  reduced 
to  a  science." 

*'  I  know  you  do — but  you  are  mistaken.  You 
would  reduce  life  itself  to  a  science,  and  make 
it  quite  unworth  the  living.  Courage  can  no 
more  be  spoken  of  generally  than  other  strictly 
human  qualities,  because  no  two  minds  are  quite 
alike.  I  suppose  you  think  that  personal  bravery 
is  a  mere  matter  of  habit." 

"Not  entirely." 

"  Scarcely  at  all,  Brenda.  A  brave  man  is  a 
brave  man  on  shore,  at  sea,  and  in  a  balloon.  A 
fox-hunter  may  be  nervous  in  a  boat.  If  so,  I 
say  he  is  at  heart  a  coward,  despite  his  fox- 
hunting. When  a  sailor  is  uncomfortable  in  a 
dogcart  he  is  not  naturally  a  brave  man,  though 
at  sea  he  borrow  a  false  confidence  from  familiar- 
ity with  what  landsmen  take  to  be  danger." 

"  What  suggested  the  idea  to  me,"  said  the  girl 
after  a  pause,  "was  that  flash  of  lightning  just 
now — when  we  first  came  on  deck.  I  was  not 
really  frightened.  I  know  that  one  never  sees 
the  flash  by  which  one  is  struck.  .  .  ." 

"  Scientific  courage,"  interrupted  Trist  gently. 

"  But  I  was  startled.  You  never  stirred  ex- 
cepting a  mere  physical  motion  caused  by  the 
brilliancy  of  the  flash.  Where  was  the  difference 
then?" 


44  SUSPENSE. 

**  I  think  that  was  habit.  It  is  easy  enongh  to 
acquire  the  self-control  necessary  to  prevent  one's 
self  being  startled  by  anything  whatsoever.  It  is 
after  the  shock  of  surprise  that  courage  is  required, 
I  have  watched  men  of  different  constitutions  in  mo- 
ments of  danger,  and  have  found  that  the  mere  act 
of  jumping  back  or  1)obbingthe  head  is  a  physical 
effect  caused  by  surjorise  as  much  as  fear.  I  have 
seen  a  man  who  was  distinctly  startled  act,  and  act 
wisely,  as  well  as  rapidly,  sooner  than  one  who 
betrayed  no  sign  of  being  moved.'' 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  murmured  Brenda 
reflectively,  *'  how  certain  people  would  act  at  a 
crisis.  I  have  often  longed  to  see  you,  for  in- 
stance, on  a  battle-field." 

"I  cannot  return  the  compliment.  Much  as  I 
enjoy  your  society,  I  would  much  rather  not  see 
you  on  a  battle-field." 

The  girl  laughed  at  his  gravity,  and  then  con- 
tinued, in  her  thoughtful,  analytical  way  : 

"  I  cannot  picture  you  at  work — at  all !  "What 
are  you  like  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  presently  an- 
swered, in  a  slow,  indifferent  way,  such  as  most 
men  acquire  at  sea,  where  time  is  of  compara- 
tively small  value  : 

"Just  like  other  men.  Much  the  same  as  in 
a  drawing-room.  Men  do  not  change  so  much 
as  you  imagine.  Not  so  much  perhaps  as  women. 
There  is  a  lamentable  monotony  about  us  :  we 
behave  at  a  funeral  as  at  a  wedding." 

"  Women  don't  do  that.  They  overdo  the 
smiling,  and  exaggerate  the  weeping,  while  be- 
tween times  they  take  note  of  each  other's  bonnets, 
and  mentally  jiieasure  the  depth  of  crape  trim- 
mings." 


A  STORM.  45 

"There  is  more  good  in  the  world,  Brenda, 
than  vou  are  aware  of." 

"And,"  said  the  girl,  '' more  courage.  Excnse 
my  returning  to  the  subject  ;  but  it  is  one  which 
is  full  of  interest,  and  I  think  you  must  know 
something  about  it." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  in  the  twilight 
his  meek  eyes  were  as  soft  as  any  woman's — softer 
than  Brenda's,  which  were  habitually  wistful  and 
much  too  grave. 

"I  do,"  he  said  simply. 

"  And  ...   ?  "  she  murmured  interrogatively. 

"And  I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  there 
is  more  courage  in  the  world  now  than  there  has 
ever  been.  We  are  the  bravest  generation  that 
has  ever  lived — though  our  bravery  is  of  a  differeiit 
type.  All  brutal  attributes  are  expunged,  audit 
is  purely  mental.  There  is  no  excitement  in  it, 
and  therefore  it  is  pure,  independent  courage. 
The  Crusades  were  marvelous  campaigns  ;  we 
never  try  to  realize  now  what  it  must  have  been 
for  those  men — most  of  whom  had  never  even  set 
foot  on  the  deck  of  a  ship — to  go  to  sea  in  small 
ill-found  vessels  on  a  mere  wild-goose  chase,  to  a 
country  of  which  they  knew  absolutely  nothing. 
But  the  Crusades  have  been  outdone ;  greater 
knowledge  has  told  us  of  greater  dangers,  and  yet 
men  are  ready  to  face  them." 

"Without  the  incentive  of  religion  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then,  Theo,  you  consider  that  religion  has 
nothing  to  do  with  personal  bravery  ?  " 

*'  Absolutely  nothing." 

"  That  is  a  bold  theory.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  a  man  will  not  fight'the  better  for  possessing 
a  strong  faith  in  a  future  life  which  will  in  every 


46  SUSPENSE, 

way  be  better  than  this — that  his  present  existence 
will  be  of  less  value  owing  to  the  possession  of  that 
faith,  and  that,  therefore,  he  will  be  readier  to 
risk  losing  his  life  ?" 

"It  is  not  a  theory/'  urged  the  mnn  in  his 
strange  gentle  way,  which  was  crudely  out  of 
keeping  with  his  words.  *'  It  is  an  experience. 
Fanaticism  undoubtedly  generates  courage ;  re- 
ligion does  not.  On  a  battle-field,  and  on  a  sink- 
ing ship,  I  have  found  that  a  future  existence,  «nd 
all  the  unending  questions,  that  it  arouses,,  occupy 
a  very  small  place  in  men's  minds." 

"  Then  of  what  are  they  thinking  ?  "What 
emotion  do  they  show  ?" 

"  They  are  thinking  of  trifles,  which  we  all  do, 
all  through  life ;  and  they  generally  either  laugh 
or  swear  ! " 

*'  Then  I  give  up  attempting  to  understand 
human  nature  !" 

"  I  gave  that  up  years  ago,  Brenda." 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  sat  gazing  across 
the  dark  waters  with  an  unsatisfied  expression 
upon  her  sweet,  intellectual  face.  Even  as  that 
gray,  hopeless  sheet  of  water,  life  lay  before  her — 
a  surface,  and  nothing  else  ;  a  knowledge  that 
there  was  something  beneath  that  surface,  a  hot, 
fierce  thirst  to  drink  deeper  of  the  cup  of  knowl- 
edge ;  to  know  more  and  find  a  reason  for  many 
things  which  to  our  minds  are  quite  unreasonable  ; 
and  no  means  of  satisfying  what  is,  after  all,  a 
natural  and  legitimate  craving. 

''It  is  no  use,"  continued  Trist  in  a_  lighter 
tone,  "attempting  to  understand  anything,  be- 
cause sooner  or  later  you  will  find  yourself  con- 
fronted by  a  great  wall  which  no  knowledge  can 
surraonnt.^' 


A  STOKM.  4^ 

"  We  either  know  too  much  or  too  little,"  said 
the  girl  disconteutedly. 

''Too  much/'  he  affirmed  without  auy  hesita- 
tion. ''Fortunately,  we  have  learnt  to  acquire  a 
mental  courage  with  our  knowledge,  or  else  we 
never  would  be  able  to  face  life  at  all." 

After  this  there  was  a  pause  of  some  duration. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  hazard  a  guess  at  what 
thoughts  were  passing  through  the  man's  brain 
as  he  sat  there  blandly  indifferent,  placid  and  ut- 
terly inscrutable.  His  meek  eyes  wore  no  far-off, 
absent  look.  He  seemed  merely  to  be  noting  the 
shadows  upon  the  water. 

With  her  it  was  different.  Plainly,  she  was 
thinking  of  him,  for  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his 
face,  endeavoring  to  decipher  something  there. 
At  last,  as  with  a  sudden  effort,  she  spoke,  and 
in  the  inconsistency,  the  utter  irrelevancy  of  her 
speech,  there  was  the  history  of  a  woman's  world. 

"  Either,"  s'ne  said  in  a  dull  voice,  "you  are 
on  the  verge  of  atheism,  or  you  love  Alice.  Only 
one  of  those  .  .  .  calamities  could  account  for 
the  utter  hopelessness  of  vour  creed." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Wylie  appeared  on  deck, 
and  playfully  chided  them  for  staying  away  so 
long. 

AVith  the  utmost  unconsciousness  of  an  unan- 
swered question,  Trist  rose  and  crossed  the  deck 
to  meet  her. 


43  sasJ'JCXSE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   COMPACT. 

**  It  has  blown  over,"  said  Trist  softly,  as  the 
little  lady  came  toward  him. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Wylie  with  obvions  ab- 
straction. She  was  not  thinking  of  the  weather 
at  all.  In  Trist's  monotonous  voice  there  had 
been  an  almost  imperceptible  catch.  Sliglil 
though  it  had  been,  the  acute  little  matron  de- 
tected it,  and  she  looked  keenly  through  the  semi- 
darkness  into  her  companion's  face.  His  meek 
eyes  met  hers,  softly,  suavely,  aggravatingly  in- 
nocent as  usual. 

''And,"  she  added  as  an  after-thought,  "how 
beautifully  fresh  it  is  now  !" 

She  took  a  seat  beside  Brenda,  glancing  at  her 
face  as  she  did  so.  The  girl  welcomed  her  with  a 
little  smile,  but  said  nothing.  The  silence  was 
characteristic.  Most  young  maidens  would  have 
considered  it  necessary  to  make  an  inane  remark 
about  the  weather,  just  to  show,  as  it  were,  that 
that  subject  had  been  under  discussion  before  the 
arrival  of  this  third  person. 

There  was  something  very  pleasant  and  home- 
like in  the  very  movements  of  Mrs.  "Wylie's  arms 
and  hands,  as  she  settled  herself  and  drew  her 
shawl  closer  round  her.  Trist  seated  himself  on 
the  rail  near  at  hand,  and  relighted  his  pipe. 
Thus  they  remained  for  some  time  in  silence. 

"  What  a  strange  couple  they  are  I "  the  matron 


\ 


THE  COMPACT. 


49 


was  reflecting,  as  she  looked  slowly  from  one  un- 
conscious  face  to  the  other. 

"  There  were  one  or  two  terrible  flashes  of 
lightning,"  she  said  aloud  in  a  conversational 
way  ;  "  I  was  quite  nervous,  but  the  Admiral  slept 
placidly  through  it  all." 

Trist  moved  slightly,  and  shook  the  ash  from 
his  pipe  over  the  side. 

"  Brenda  was  terrified."  he  said  resignedly. 

'*I  was  startled,"  admitted  the  girl,  "that  was 
all.  And  the  result  was  a  very  learned  discourse 
on  courage,  its  source  and  value,  by  Theo." 

•''I  always  thought,"  said  he  toMrs.  Wylie,  in 
a  mildly  disappointed  tone,  "■  tliac  she  was 
plucky." 

Mrs.  Wylie  laughed,  and  then  with  sudden 
gravity  nodded  her  head  significantly. 

''  So  she  is — very  plucky." 

"I  think,"  suggested  Brenda,  ''that  it  would 
be  better  taste,  and  more  natural,  perhaps,  to  dis- 
cuss me  behind  my  back." 

Trist  laughed. 

•'•'I  never  discuss  any  one,"  he  said.  "That  is 
a  lady's  privilege  and  monopoly.  Men  are  usually 
fully  occupied  in  talking  about  themselves,  and 
have  no  time  to  devote  to  the  study  of  their  sur- 
roundings." 

"I  generally  find  that  men  say  either  too  much 
or  too  little  about  themselves,"  observed  Mrs. 
Wylie.  '•'  There  is  no  medium  between  the  super- 
egotistical  and  the  hyper-reserved.  Among  my 
young  men,  and  I  have  a  great  number,  there  are 
some  who  tell  me  everything,  and  others  who  tell 
me  nothing.  The  former  appear  to  think  that 
the  universe  revolves  round  them,  that  they  are 
superlatively  interesting,  and  that  their  relations 


J 


6  SUSPEATS/;. 


are  the  same  in  ratio  to  the  closeness  of  their 
C"in!K'r,tion  with  the  axis  of  the  social  world — 
th:it  is,  to  themselves.  Consequently  I  hear  all 
sorts  of  confidences,  and  many  totally  pointless 
stories." 

'•'  Which,*'  suggested  Trist,  "'  never  go  anv  fur- 
ther."^ 

'•  Which  never  go  any  further,  because  their 
specific  gravity  is  of  sucli  trilling  imviortance  th:i: 
they  make  absolutely  no  impression  upon  t'le 
tenderestof  sympathetic  hearts." 

Brenda,  who  had  been  listening  in  a  semi  into.- 
ested  way,  now  made  a  remark.  She  was  not  a 
brilliant  conversationalist,  this  thoughtful  litrlo 
person,  and  rarely  contributed  anything  striki  ig 
or  witty  to  a  general  intercourse.  ller  ideas 
needed  the  security  of  a  tete-d-t6te  to  CDax  them 
forth. 

"  I  think,"  she  said  to  ]\[rs.  Wylie,  "  thatiyou 
must  be  gifted  with  a  wonderful  amount  of  pa- 
tience, or  you  would  never  bother  with  your  yomr^ 
men.  The  obligation  and  the  ^^leasure  must  l)o 
all  on  their  side." 

**It  is,"  put  in  Trist  cynically,  ''a  sort  of 
mother's  agency.  We  ought  to  issue  a  circular  for 
the  benefit  of  provincial  parents  :  'Young  men's 
tnorals  looked  after ;  confidences  received  and 
kindly  forgotten.  Youths  without  dull  female 
relatives  preferred.  Address,  Mrs.  Wylie,  Suf- 
folk Mansions,  London,  and  Wyl's  Hall,  Wyven- 
wich." 

Mrs.  Wylie  laughed  comfortably. 

"  I  must  confess,"  she  said,  ''that  the  female 
relatives  are  a  drawback.  There  are  a  good  many 
stories  to  be  listened  to  about  hopelessly  dull  sis- 
ters and  iucapable  mothers ;  but  my  yoaug  men 


THE  COMPACT. 


SI 


are  not  so  bad  on  the  whole,  and  I  know  I  do  a 
little  good  occasiomilly.  Of  course  there  are  some 
who  require  snubbing  at  times,  and  some  who  are 
not  interesting  ;  but  the  silent  ones  are  my  favor- 
ites, and  there  is  only  one  type  of  talkative  I  really 
object  to — a  young  Scotchman  with  hard  lashless 
eyes,  a  square  bony  jaw,  a  very  small  nose,  no  com- 
plexion, and  an  accent." 

"  I  know  the  type,"  said  Trist ;  "  he  has  a 
theory  for  everything,  including  life.  Is  a  hard 
business  man,  a  keen  arguer,  and  never  makes  a 
good  soldier." 

"  Altogether  a  most  pleasing  and  fascinating 
young  man,"  interrupted  Brenda,  with  a  low 
laugh.  "  You  are  both  terribly  cynical,  1  believe, 
beneath  a  gentle  suavity.  It  only  comes  to  the 
surface  when  you  get  together  and  lay  aside  the 
social  mask.  I  never  met  this  ideal  Scotchman  at 
your  house,  Mrs.  Wylie." 

"No,  my  dear,"  was  the  decisive  reply,  "and 
I  do  not  think  you  ever  will." 

"  You  prefer  young  men  who  take  but  do  not 
grab,"  suggested  Trist. 

"  Mine,"  replied  the  lady,  with  tolerant  com- 
placency, "are  not  brilliant  yonths.  Some  of 
them  may  get  in  front  of  the  crowd,  but  they  will 
do  so  in  a  quiet  and  gentlemanly  way,  without 
elbowing  or  pushing  too  obviously,  and  without 
using  other  men's  shoulders  as  levers  to  help  them- 
selves forward." 

She  looked  straight  into  the  young  fellow's  face 
with  her  pleasantly  keen  smile,  for  he  was  the 
first  and  the  foremost  of  her  young  men,  and  she 
was  justly  proud  of  him.  He  had  passed  beyond 
the  dense  mediocrity  of  the  crowd,  and  stood  alone 
in  a  plaoe  which  he  had  won  unaided.     He  was 


5a  SUSPENSE. 

one  of  those  who  said  too  little — one  of  the  silent 
ones  whom  she  loved  above  the  others  who  told 
her  everything.  In  her  cheery,  careless  way,  with 
all  her  assumed  worldlincss,  she  did  a  vast  deal  of 
good  amongst  these  unattached  young  men  who 
were  in  the  habit  of  dropping  in  during  their  spare 
evenings  at  the  cosy  little  drawing-room  on  the 
second-floor  of  Suffolk  Mansions. 

There  was  usually  some  connecting-link,  some 
vague  and  distant  introduction  between  the  young 
men  and  the  cheerful,  worthy.,  childlct-s  lady  who 
chose  to  make  all  waifs  and  stragglers  welcome. 
These  wore  generally  provincial  men  living  in 
chambers  and  working  out  their  apprenticeships 
under  the  different  styles  of  their  different  profes- 
sions. Articled  clerks,  medical  students,  art 
students,  somethings  in  the  City,  and  a  journalist 
or  so.  She  never  invited  them  to  come,  and  so 
they  came  when  they  wanted  to,  often  to  find  her 
out,  for  she  was  a  gay  little  soul,  and  then  they 
came  again.  There  was  always  a  box  of  cigarettes 
on  the  mantelpiece,  and  the  broad  polished  table 
was  invariably  littered  with  the  latest  magazines, 
books,  and  periodicals.  Mrs.  AVylie  was  always 
broad  awake,  and  the  Admiral  usually  fell  asleep 
as  soon  as  the  conversation  waxed  personal. 

In  the  matter  of  confidences  Mrs.  Wylie  pos- 
sessed real  genius.  She  forgot  things  so  conveni- 
ently, and  never  smiled  when  given  to  understand 
that  some  youthful  heart  was  broken  for  the  third 
time  in  one  season.  She  never  preached  and 
rarely  advised,  but  merely  listened  sympathetic- 
ally. There  were  men  who  came  to  her  and  never 
mentioned  themselves,  sought  no  advice,  made  no 
confidences,  and  tliese  she  made  most  welcome, 
for  ehe  loved  to  study  them.,  and  wonder  indefi- 


THE  COMPACT.  53 

nitely  over  their  projects,  their  ambitions,  and 
their  motives.  Aijove  all,  she  loved  to  watch 
Theo  'Prist.  This  yuung  man  was  a  mine  of  hu- 
man interest  to  her,  and  with  Brenda  Gilholme 
she  sought  to  discover  its  inmost  depths.  1  believe 
there  is  a  delicate  instrument  which  betrays  the 
presence  of  precious  metals  in  the  earth  when 
brought  into  proximity  with  its  surface.  Mrs. 
Wylie  had  perhaps  heard  of  such  an  instrument, 
but  whether  that  be  so  or  no,  she  deliberately  used 
Brenda  to  detect  the  good  that  lay  in  Theo  Trist. 
You  will  say  that  this  was  matchmaking  pure  and 
simple  ;  but  such  it  certainly  could  not  be,  for 
Mrs.  Wylie  knew  full  well  that  Brenda  Gilholme 
and  Theo  Trist  were  people  who  knew  their  own 
minds,  who  would  never  be  forced  into  anything 
by  a  tliird  person.  And  treating  the  great  ques- 
tion generally,  she  was  of  the  comforting  opinion 
that  each  individual  is  best  left  to  manage  his  or 
her  own  affairs  unaided.  The  matchmaker — the 
third  person,  in  fact — has  remarkably  little  to  do 
with  most  marriages,  though  many  of  us  are 
pleased  to  remember  after  the  event  that  we  had 
something  to  do  with  its  earlier  career. 

If  it  was  not  match-making,  Mrs.  Wylie's  con- 
duct was,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  unscrupulous  ;  but 
then,  my  brothers,  who  amongst  us  knows  a  per- 
fectly scrupulous  woman  ?  Not  I,  par  Dieu. 
Charming,  intelligent,  fascinating,  superior 
(ahem  !  )  but  scrupulous — no.  I  have  not  yet 
met  her.  Be  it  the  shape  of  a  hat  or  the  heart  of 
a  lover,  she  will  get  it,  taking  it  as  a  German 
clerk  will  take  your  business  from  you,  by  the 
means  that  are  surest  of  succes^,  without  stopping 
to  consider  the  silly  question  of  an  overstrained 
point  of  honorj 


54  SUSPENSE. 

Trigt  was  not,  strictly  speaking,  merely  one  of 
Mrs.  AVylie's  young  men.  His  mother  was  her 
first  cousin,  and  she  it  was  who  had  gone  down 
to  Windsor  to  bring  home  a  little  round-faced  Eton 
boy  to  the  house  of  sickness  when  Mrs.  Trist's 
eartlily  pilgrimage  was  tliought  to  be  at  an  end. 
Since  that  day  she  had  never  quite  lost  sight  of  the 
boy,  and  years  later  slio  chaperoned  Alice  and 
BrendaGilholme  through  an  Oxford  Commemora- 
tion at  the  undergraduate's  request. 

It  was  at  her  house,  and  through  her  instru- 
mentality, that  the  friendship  between  these 
motherless  young  people  was  chiefly  kept  up. 
The  respective  fathers  knew  nothing  of  each 
other,  and  cared  likewise.  One  was  a  Parliamen- 
tary monomaniac  ;  tlie  other  a  worn-out  Indian 
Civil-servant,  tottering  on  his  last  legs  at  Chelten- 
ham. There  had  never  been  an  interchange  of 
pretty  sentiments  ;  such  things  were  not  in  Mrs. 
vVylie's  line  of  country  at  all.  She  had  not  wept 
silent  tears  over  Brenda's  bowed  head,  and  prom- 
ised to  fill  the  place  of  that  vague  and  shadowy 
mother  whom  the  girl  had  never  known.  Tears 
of  any  description  were  unfamiliar  to  the  comfort- 
able, brave  little  lady.  Some  of  us  profess,  and  some 
there  are  who  act  without  professing  :  of  these 
latter  was  Mrs.  Wylie.  It  is  so  easy  to  talk  of 
filling  that  vacant  place,  and  so  utterly  impossible 
to  cast  the  faintest  shadow  upon  the  walls  of  the 
empty  chamber. 

With  Trist  it  had  been  the  same.  Unquestioned 
he  had  come  and  gone,  only  to  come  again.  Mrs. 
Wylie  never  sought  to  entice  confidences  by  a 
kindly  show  of  interest,  and  what  he  chose  to  tell 
(wliich  was  little  enough)  she  listened  to  with 
email  comment.     If  she  had  in  any  slight  degree 


TtlE  COMPACT.  55 

influenced    his  strangely-blended  character,   her 
influence  had  been  all  entirely  beneficial. 

8uch,  briefly,  was  the  social  relationship  exietiijg 
between  these  throe  persons  brought  together  upon 
the  deck  of  the  Hermione  beneath  the  magic  of 
an  Arctic  night.  Amidst  such  vast  and  grandiose 
scenery  the  trim  yacht  looked  petty  and  insignifi- 
cant ;  but  these  three  persons  had  no  appearance 
of  being  out  of  jilace.  They  were  of  that  adapt- 
able material  which  appears  to  yield  to  its  environ- 
ments and  takes  the  shape  of  the  receptacle  in 
which  it  finds  itself.  Yet  is  it,,  like  certain  bone- 
less marine  animals,  independent  of  its  surround- 
ings, having  a  perfect  shape  of  its  own,  into  which 
it  invariably  returns  when  left  alone. 

A  brilliantly  capable  woman,  an  intellectual 
girl,  and  a  gifted  man  could  not  well  be  in  their 
social  element  in  a  deserted  fjord,  amidst  gloomy 
mountains  which  weigh  down  men's  minds  and 
keep  back  all  mental  growth  ;  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  discomfort,  no  suspicion  of  boredom. 
This  world  was  theirs,  and  with  it  they  were  con- 
tent. 

The  stillness  that  had  come  over  them  waa 
broken  at  length  by  the  voice  of  Admiral  Wylie, 
raised  in  the  cabin  below  and  heard  through  the 
open  skylight. 

''  Brenda  —  little  woman  I  Brenda  — ahoy  ! 
Come  and  play  to  me  !  "  cried  the  pleasantly  rau- 
cous tones. 

The  girl  rose  from  her  seat  at  once,  and  passed 
down  tiie  little  stairway  with  a  light  responsive 
laugh,  leaving  the  other  occupants  of  the  deck 
in  silence. 

Presentlv  the  sound  of  her  playing  reached 
them.     It 'waa  characteristic  of  herself:  bo  per- 


56  SUSPENSE. 

fectly  trained,  so  technically  faultless,  and  yet  as 
innately  and  pathetically  sweet,  was  it. 

Trist  moved  restlessly  at  the  sound  of  it,  and 
Mrs.  Wylie,  watching  him,  saw  the  blue  puffs  of 
smoke  follow  each  other  with  unnatural  rapidity 
from  his  lips.  She  leant  back,  and  drew  her 
shawl  cosily  around  her. 

At  length  Trist  spoke,  busying  himself  with  his 
pipe  and  giving  it  his  full  attention. 

"  Brenda,"  he  remarked  conversationally,  "  has 
been  lecturing  me  upon  the  evils  attending  an 
excessive  spirit  of  independence.'' 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  her  remarks  were  worthy 
of  your  consideration." 

'' They  were.  Brenda's  remarks  generally  are 
worthy  of  consideration." 

''Were  they  of  a  personal  nature?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Wylie,  with  a  slight  suggestion  of  mischief 
in  her  tone. 

"  Decidedly  so.  She  has  a  pleasant  way  of  tell- 
ino:  me  mv  faults.  But  I  like  it,  because  she  is 
invariably  right.  Perfect  sincerity  is  a  rare  thing 
in  these  times." 

Mrs.  Wylie  did  not  reply  to  this  melancholy 
truth.  She  Avas  looking  past  her  companion 
across  the  glassy  water,  with  her  eyelids  slightly 
contracted  and  her  rather  thin  lips  pressed  closely 
together.  It  was  an  expression  very  familiar  to 
Theo  Trist,  and  he  waited  silently.  Presently 
she  made  a  little  movement,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  faint  suggestion  of  surprise,  as  if  she  had 
just  landed  on  firm  earth  after  a  long,  long 
mental  voyage. 

*'  She  was  quite  right,  Theo  1 "  was  the  re- 
sult. 

He  smiled  vaguely,  and  looked  obstinate. 


THE  COMPACT.  5; 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  in  an  explanatory  way, 
**  I  were  a  different  sort  of  woman  from  what  I 
am,  I  should  cousider  myself  very  much  ill-used 
at  being  deprived  of  a  fuller  confidence.  1  should 
strive,  and  nag,  and  persist  until  I  had  wormed 
out  of  you  your  ambitions,  your  joys,  your  sor- 
rows, and  your  possible  motives.  That  is  what 
Brenda  means,  I  think.  Theoretically,  she  is 
right ;  practically  and  personally  she  is  wrong." 

"  Is  it  not,"  suggested  tlie  young  fellow  in  self- 
defense,  "  the  height  of  egoism  to  inflict  thought- 
lessly upon  other  people  one's  petty,  temporary, 
and  often  imaginary  woes  ?  " 

**  Not  always,  Theo.  There  is  one  case  where 
it  is  real  kindness  to  be  a  little  selfish,  and  to 
speak  openly  of  one's  feelings  and  thoughts.  I 
once  had  a  little  boy  of  my  own,  though  it  was 
years  ago,  when  I  was  quite  a  different  person 
from  .  .  .  from  what  I  am  now,  so  I  can  hardly 
pretend  to  know  much  of  a  mother's  feelings  \ 
but  I  am  convinced  that  it  is  truer  kindness  to 
tell  one's  mother  too  mucii  than  too  little.  She 
knows — her  mere  natural  instinct  tells  her — that 
there  is  something  wrong,  and  in  the  intensity  of 
her  love  and  anxiety  she  exaggerates  things  un- 
duly." 

They  were  both  speaking  lightly  and  only 
half  gravely,  but  there  was  something  pathetic 
in  their  ignorance,  however  indifferent  and  con- 
versational their  tones  might  be.  Both  were 
speaking  vaguely  and  speculatively  of  something 
they  had  never  known,  something  they  never 
could  know  from  personal  experience. 

'*  Perliaps  it  is  better.  .  .  ."  Trist  began, 
and  then  ho  stopped  suddenly,  withheld  by  a 
quick    remembrance  of  the    utter    misery  that 


58  SUSPENSE. 

weighed  down  the  heart  of  the  little  Eton  boy 
who  had  gazed  stupidly  out  of  the  cab  window  88 
he  passed  over  AViudsor  bridge  fifteen  years  ago. 
He  could  hear  again  the  rattle  of  the  shaky 
wheels,  the  vibration  of  the  windows  ;  and  again 
the  sound  of  this  kindly  woman's  voice,  lovingly 
lowered,  came  to  his  recollection. 

**No,''  he  said,  correcting  himself,  "it  can- 
not be  better,  but  as  things  have  turned  out, 
perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  there  is  no  one  at  home 
listening  too  eagerly  to  the  cry  of  the  paper-boy 
when  I  am  away." 

"  You  forget  poor  me,"  said  Mrs.  "Wylio 
merrily.  She  had  a  wonderful  way  of  slipping 
round  a  grave  subject. 

"  Not  at  all.     But  I  should  imagine  that  you 

generally  look  at  the  births,  deaths,  and  marriages 
efore  studying  the  list  of  killed  and  wounded. 

"  Invariably.  I  look  upon  you  as  a  person  emi- 
nently capable  of  taking  care  of  himself.  And  1 
Bhould  hope  that  if  there  were  anything  wrong 
you  would  have  the  good  grace  to  let  me  know 
before  the  penny  papers  shriek  it  forth  to  the 
wor:d." 

**  That  sounds  inconsistent." 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  not  so.  I  am  not  an 
anxious  person,  Theo.  I  never  lie  awake  on 
stormy  nights  at  Wyl's  Hall  and  think  of  you 
— probably  sleeping  peaceably  in  tropic  calms — 
bu»  Hike  to  hear  occasionally  of  your  movements, 
and  I  like  to  hear  people  talk  of  you,  because  I 
can  say,  *  I  know  him  ' — that  is  all." 

"Then  .  .  .  Brenda  is  wrong?"  murmured 
Trist  with  a  suggestion  of  relief  in  his  manner. 

**  Yes,  Brenda  is  wrong,  because  I  am  not  your 
mother,  and  have  no  desire  to  pretend  to  that 


THE  COMPACT. 


59 


doubtful  felicity.     It  is  an  honor  which  I  distinctly 
decline." 

'*  I  am  sorry.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  don*t  mention  it.  You  are  hardly  to 
blame.  But  I  imagine  that  you  would  make  a 
very  bad  son." 

Trist  laughed  and  rose  to  his  feet.  His  pipe 
was  empty,  and  having  knocked  the  ashes  out 
against  the  rail,  he  dropped  it  into  his  pocket. 
Then  he  stood  before  her  waiting  until  she 
should  make  a  movement  to  go  below. 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  casually,  with- 
out looking  up  as  she  drew  her  shawl  comfortably 
around  her  previous  to  rising — "  nevertheless,  I 
should  like  you  to  understand  that  if  ever  I  can 
be  of  use  to  you  (for  an  old  woman  might  on  oc- 
casions be  useful  to  the  most  independent  of  young 
men,  Tlieo),  I  am  ready  to  do  anything  for  you. 
Any  little  odd  maternal  jobs  without  pretending 
to  the  maternal  honor,  you  understand." 

She  rose  and  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  vessel, 
looking  round  the  fjord  and  over  the  mountains 
in  a  practical,  weather-wise  way.  Trist  followed 
her,  and  stood  a  little  behind,  in  his  still  unemo- 
tional manner,  with  his  meek  eyes  raised  to  a 
distant  snowfield,  where  the  pink  reflection  of  the 
northwestern  sky  hovered  yet. 

*'  It  need  not  be  a  one-sided  transaction,"  he 
p.iid  in  the  same  worldly,  hopelessly  every-day 
tone  of  voice.  ''  There  may  bo  little  odd  filial 
j(jbs  without  acknowledging  the  filial  ties,  you 
understand." 

Mrs.  Wylie  laughed  her  easy,  flowing  laugh, 
and  walked  briskly  forward ;  for  the  Admiral 
was  calling  her  now  in  his  genial,  tyrannical 
autocracy. 


6&  St/S/>£ArS£. 

*'  Yes,**  she  said  cheerily.  "  It  may  be  so.** 
And  so  this  compact  was  made  at  last — a  com- 
pact of  wiiich  his  share  was  to  be  commenced 
nulely  and  suddenly  within  twenty-four  hours, 
while  hers  was  harder  perhaps,  and  infinitely 
sadder,  extending  into  years  yet  unopened  and 
unthought  of. 


CUAPTER  VI. 

A  SHADOW. 

The  two  fishermen  went  off  in  opposite  direc- 
tions again  the  next  day  the  Admiral  taking  the 
gig  and  sailing  down  the  fjord  to  the  distant  river, 
while  'L'rist  went  ashore  in  Nielsen's  boat  to  fish 
the  stream  that  ran  past  the  little  mountain 
homestead. 

It  was  a  dull  foreboding  day  ;  for  the  clouds  had 
fallen  over  the  summits  and  all  was  gray.  The 
gorges  were  darksome,  and  over  everything  there 
seemed  to  have  come  a  sudden  gloomy  melancholy. 
Without  actually  rrdning,  the  gray  mist  overliead 
dissolved  softly  into  a  falling  dampness  which  was 
more  subtly  penetrating  than  driving  rain  itself. 
The  sea  was  of  a  dull  gray,  and  looked  muddy. 
Those  Arctic  fjords  can  make  a  wondrous  sliow 
wlien  the  sun  shines,  and  fleecy  white  clouds  nestle 
upon  the  shoulders  of  the  grim  mountains,  but 
when  a  gray  pall  hangs  motionless  one  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea,  there  is  no  more  dismal  prospect 
on  earth.     It  seems  as  if  the  rain  would  softly 


A  SHADOW.  6i 

fall  forever  and  a  day— as  if  nothing  could  ever 
brush  aside  the  heavy  vaporous  veil,  and  let  the 
gay  blue  sky  peep  through  again. 

But  it  was  a  grand  fishing-day,  despite  a  chill 
breeze  too  weak  to  move  the  clouds,  and  the  fisher- 
men went  off  in  high  feather.  The  ladies  stood 
on  deck  and  waved  departing  wishes  for  good  luck. 
Before  the  breeze  Admiral  Wjlie  gcudded  away, 
while  Trist's  progress  in  the  heavier  boat  was 
slower,  owing  to  the  northern  deliberation  of 
Nielsen's  movements.  They  saw  him  land,  and 
immediately  he  was  surrounded  by  a  skipping, 
dancing  bevy  of  little  white-haired  children — 
merry  little  boys  who  begged  him  in  their  monot- 
onous Norse  to  throw  a  stone  far,  far  acroes  the 
sea.  Willingly  he  obliged  them,  while  eager  hands 
were  outstretched  to  hold  his  rod  and  gaff.  Then 
the  little  maidens  had  to  be  attended  to,  notably 
one  quaint  little  figure  in  a  dress  made  upon  the 
same  lines  as  her  mother's,  reaching  to  her  heels, 
with  true  golden  hair,  plaited  iir.d  pressed  close 
against  her  tiny  head  in  gleaming  coils,  who 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  wondrous  pair  of 
blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  speak  some  deep  un- 
earthly language  of  their  own. 

This  little  one  went  up  the  path  toward  the 
river  in  triumph,  standing  upon  the  lid  of  his 
creel  with  her  little  fingers  closely  clutching  the 
collar  of  his  coat,  while  the  boys  and  older  girls 
ran  by  his  side  chattering  gaily. 

"  And  that,"  said  Mrs.  A\^yiie  in  her  semi-sar- 
castic way  as  she  turned  to  go  below  with  the 
view  of  consulting  the  steward  about  dinner,  **  is 
the  man  whose  element  is  war." 

She  waited  a  moment,  but  Brenda  made  no 
reply  beyond  a  short,  mirthless  laugh. 


62  SUSPENSE. 

During  that  day  the  clouds  never  lifted.  It  was 
twilight  from  morning  till  night.  At  times  it 
drizzled  in  a  silent,  feathery  way,  and  occusioa- 
ally  it  rained  harder.  The  temperature  grew  hot 
and  cold,  unaccountably,  at  intervals,  and  the 
roar  of  the  river  was  singularly  noticeable. 

At  six  o'clock  in  the  evening  Nielsen's  boat 
dropped  alongside,  and  Trist  clambered  on  board 
the  Ilermione.  The  ladies,  having  heard  the 
sound  of  oars,  came  on  deck  to  meet  him. 

"Ah,"  said  Brenda  j  **  you  are  the  first  home 
again." 

"  Yes.  1  have  Llu*ee,  so  I  am  content,"  was  his 
reply.     "  Is  there  no  sign  of  the  Admiral  ?  " 

"Not  yet." 

As  they  spoke  they  moved  aft  and  stood  beneath 
the  awning,  looking  down  the  deserted  fjord. 
There  was  no  sail,  no  suggestion  of  life  to  break 
the  monotony  of  its  waters.  Presently  Trist  too'k 
a  pair  of  binoculars  from  a  small  covered  box 
screwed  to  the  after-rail,  and  gazed  steadily  at  a 
certain  point  on  the  southern  shore  where  there 
was  a  gap  in  the  bleak  wall  of  mountain. 

"  The  boat,"  he  said,  "  seems  to  be  lying  there 
still  ;  I  can  just  see  something  yellow  near  the 
large  rock  overhanging  the  river." 

Mrs.  AVylie  looked  at  her  watch.  In  half  an 
hour  dinner  would  bo  ready,  and  the  boat  was  five 
miles  away.  Even  with  a  stiff  breeze  the  Admiral, 
whose  punctuality  was  proverbial,  could  not  hope 
to  be  in  time.  She  turned,  ami,  looking  forward, 
perceived  the  steward  standing  at  the  open  galley 
door,  telescope  in  hand,  wearing  upon  his  keen 
North-country  face  a  look  of  holy  resignation. 

"  That  old  gentleman,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  in  an 
undertone,  as  she  looked  toward  the  distant  boat. 


A  SHADOW.  63 

"  is    going   to   get    himself  into   trouble.      The 
steward  is  annoyed." 

Presently  Trist  went  below  to  change  his  clothes, 
and  when  he  returned,  twenty  niiniues  later,  the 
ladies  were  still  on  deck,  standing  near  the  after- 
rail,  looking  dowi'i  the  fjord  toward  the  river.  It 
was  notliing  alarming  for  a  salmon-fisherman  to 
be  an  hour  late  for  dinner,  and  there  was  no  dis- 
play of  anxiety  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Wylie.  She 
was  not,  as  I  have  endeavored  to  ex2:»lain,  a  worry- 
ing woman,  and  she  was,  moreover,  a  sailor's  wife, 
endowed  with  a  brave,  cheery  heart,  and  well 
accustomed  to  wait  for  wind,  weather,  or  mishap. 
She  appeared  to  be  more  afraid  of  the  steward's 
displeasure  than  of  an  anything  else,  laughing  at  it 
with  mock  foreboding,  after  the  manner  of  ladies 
who  feel  that  they  are  beloved  by  their  inferiors. 

About  half -past  seven  a  fresh  breeze  sprang  np, 
blowing  across  the  fjord  fitfully,  and  consequently 
favorable  to  sailing  either  way.  Brenda  had  been 
watching  Mrs.  Wylie  and  Theo  furtively,  for  she 
was  of  a  somewhat  anxious  temperament,  and 
could  not  understand  the  levity  with  which  thev 
were  pleased  to  treat  Admiral  Wylie's  prolonged 
absence. 

She  now  noticed  a  subtle  change  in  Trist's 
manner.  His  meek  eyes  acquired  a  strange  quick- 
ness of  movement,  and  for  the  first  time  slie  saw 
him  glance  sideways,  or,  to  be  more  explicit,  she 
perceived  that  he  turned  his  eyes  in  a  certain 
direction  without  turning  also  his  head.  This 
direction  was  invariably  down  the  fjord  toward 
the  river.  There  was  no  actual  change  in  his 
manner,  for  he  walked  backward  and  forward  be- 
side them,  upright  yet  humble,  firmly  yet  softlv, 
B8  usual  \  but  there  seemed  to  be  a  new  influence 


64  SUSPENSE. 

in  his  presence.  It  was  one  of  command.  The 
girl  suddenly  and  unaccountably  felt  that  this  soft- 
spoken  man  was  no  longer  a  mere  guest  on  board 
the  Hermione.  In  the  absence  of  Admiral  "U'ylie 
the  actual  command  of  the  ship  fell  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  in  his  gentle,  passive  wr.y  he  had 
assumed  the  responsibility,  almost  unconsciously, 
without  ostentation. 

Brenda  was  in  no  mannar  surprised  when  he 
presently  turned  to  Mrs.  Wylie  and  said  : 

''It  is  no  use  waiting  any  longer.  I  think  you 
and  Brenda  had  better  go  down  to  dinner,  while  I 
take  tlic  long-boat  and  sail  down  to  see  what  is 
delaying  them." 

The  hostess  made  no  attempt  to  combat  his  de- 
cision, but  amended  it  hospitably. 

'•'  You  must  have  some  dinner  first/'  she  said 
decisively.  There  was  no  interchange  of  anxious 
doubts,  no  alleviating  suggestions  of  obvious 
"worthlessncss,  such  as  timid  people  proffer  readily 
to  persons  suffering  fiom  suspense  ;  and  Brenda 
felt  that  there  was  a  great  courage  behind  the 
smiling  woman's  face  at  her  side. 

Trist  went  forward  to  where  Captain  Barrow 
was  standing,  smoking  his  evening  pipe  just  abaft 
the  mainmast. 

"Will  you  get  out  the  long-boat,  please,"  the 
ladies  heard  him  saj^  "  with  mast,  and  sail,  and 
one  man  ?  " 

Presently  he  joined  them  in  the  saloon,  where 
they  were  pretending  to  dine,  and  hurriedly  drank 
some  soup.  No  one  spoke,  and  tlie  sound  of  the 
sailors'  movements  as  they  lowered  the  long-boat 
was  the  only  break  in  an  uncomfortable  silence. 
The  steward  moved  noiselessly  and  lithely,  as  be- 
hooved his  calling. 


A  SHADOM^.  65 

*'  Your  oilskins  are  in  your  state-room,  sir,"  he 
whispered  presently  to  Trist,  who  soon  afterward 
passed  through  the  narrow  doorway  into  his  little 
apartment. 

When  he  came  out  he  was  fully  clad  against  the 
tine  cold  rain  which  was  falling  now.  Even  in 
heavy  sea-boots  he  managed  to  walk  smoothly. 

The  lamp  had  been  lighted  in  the  saloon,  and 
he  stood  for  a  moment  within  its  rays,  looking  at 
the  two  ladies.  It  was  an  incongruous  and  un- 
consciously dramatic  picture  thus  formed  in  the 
refined  little  saloon,  the  two  gracious  women 
smiling  wistfully  at  the  straight,  slim  man  in 
gleaming  waterproofs.  The  very  contrast  between 
their  delicate  evening-dresses  and  his  seaman-like 
attire  was  a  shock.  The  white  table-cloth,  adorned 
with  polished  silver  and  odorous  flowers,  seemed  a 
mockery,  because  there  were  two  empty  chairs 
beside  it. 

He  leant  over  the  back  of  his  chair,  and,  reach- 
ing his  wine-glass,  which  stood  half  full,  he  emp- 
tied it. 

'•'  Do  not  be  anxious,"  he  said  ;  ''I  expect  we 
shall  be  back  before  you  have  finished  dinner." 

And  he  passed  out  of  the  saloon,  swinging  his 
sou '-wester  by  its  strings. 

"  We  will  keep  some  dinner  warm  for  you  both," 
called  out  Mrs.  W^ylie  cheerfully,  and  from  a  dis- 
tance he  answered  : 

"  Thank  you  I  " 

While  continuing  their  homeopathic  meal  they 
heard  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  the  creak  of  a 
block,  and  immediately  afterward  the  rush  of  the 
long-boat  through  the  water  under  heavy  sail. 

It  was  very  cold  that  evening,  and,  owing  to  the 
heavy   clouds,    almost    dark,      Nevertheless   the 

5 


66  SUSPENSE. 

ladies  went  on  deck  immediately  after  the  farce 
of  dinner  liad  been  carried  to  aa  end.  At  first 
they  talked  in  a  scrappy,  strained  way,  and  then 
lapsed  into  silence.  Wrapped  closely  in  their 
cloaks,  they  walked  side  by  side  fore  and  aft. 
Owing  to  the  fine  drizzle  which  blew  across  the 
fjord,  it  was  now  impossible  to  distinguish  any 
object  more  than  a  mile  away  from  the  yacht,  and 
the  two  women  were  enveloped  in  a  silent  gray 
veil  of  suspense. 

Until  ten  o'clock  they  continued  their  vigil — 
alone  on  the  deck  except  for  the  watchful  steward 
standing  within  the  galley-door.  Then  Brenda 
espied  a  sail  looming  through  the  gray  mist. 

"  There  is  one  of  the  boats,"  she  said  gently, 
but  there  was  a  faint  thrill  of  dread  in  her  voice. 

Mrs.  Wylie  made  no  answer,  but  walked  to  the 
after-rail,  out  from  beneath  the  awning,  into  the 
rain.  Brenda  followed,  and  there  they  stood 
waiting. 

"It  is  the  gig,"  said  the  elder  woman  half  to 
herself,  otherwise  the  horrible  moments  passed 
mutely  by. 

There  was  but  one  man  in  the  boat.  Trist  had 
nndoubtedly  sent  for  help.  Contrary  to  etiquette, 
the  sailor  did  not  make  for  the  steps  hanging 
amidships,  but  came  straight  beneath  the  counter 
of  tlie  ilermione,  lowering  his  sail  deftly,  and 
standing  up  to  touch  his  dripping  sou'-wester  as 
the  boat  fell  alongside. 

The  sailor  was  young  and  impulsive.  He  did 
not  think  much  of  yachtsman  etiquette  just  then, 
but  stood  up  in  his  boat,  holding  on  to  the  rail  of 
the  vessel  with  both  hands. 

**  Pleasp,  marm,"  he  said  hurriedly  and  un- 
evenly, "  I  waited  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  as 


A  SHADOW.  67 

the  Admiral  told  me  to  do  until  seven  o'clock, 
and  he  never  came.  Then  I  landed,  and  clam- 
bered up  a  bit  to  look  for  him.  When  a*  was  a 
bit  up  I  saw  the  long-boat  comin'  and  Mr.  Trist 
steering  her,  so  I  went  down  again.  Mr.  Trist's 
gone  up  the  river,  marra,  and  me  and  Barker 
waited  for  two  hours  and  heard  nothin'.  Then 
Barker  says  I'd  better  come  on  board  an'  tell  yer, 
marm." 

'' You  did  quite  right,  Cobbold,"  replied  Mrs. 
Wylie,  in  a  singularly  monotonous  voice.  ''  You 
had  better  come  on  board  and  get  something  to 
eat ;  you  look  tired." 

But  the  man  did  not  move.  He  shook  his 
head. 

"  N"o,  marm,"  he  said  bashfully,  *'I'm  not 
wantin'  anything  t'eat.  And  I'm  not  tired  .  .  . 
only  I'm  a  bit  .  .  .  scared  !  I  should  like  to  go 
back,  marm,  at  once  to  the  river." 

Mrs.  Wylie  thought  for  a  moment  deeply. 

''  I  will  go  back  with  you,"  she  said  at  length. 
Then  she  went  forward  to  where  Captain  Barrow 
stood  with  the  rest  of  the  ci'ew,  now  thoroughly 
aroused  to  anxiety,  grouped  behind  him. 

"  Captain  Barrow,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  slightly 
raised,  so  that  all  might  hear  her,  •*  the  Admiral 
has  not  come  back  yet.  I  am  afraid  that  he  has 
either  hurt  himself  or  is  lost  in  the  mist.  I  will 
go  back  with  Cobbold  in  tb.e  gig.  But  ...  it 
will  not  be  necessary  to  keep  the  men  up." 

In  tlie  meantime,  Brenda  had  not  been  idle. 
She  ran  down  below  and  found  the  steward  already 
in  the  saloon  procuring  waterproofs.  He  was 
kneeling  before  an  open  locker  when  she  entered 
the  little  cabin,  and,  turning  his  head,  he  saw 
her. 


68  SC/SP£A^SK. 

*'  Are  you  going  too,  miss  ?  "  he  asked. 

'•  Yes,  Clarke,  I  am  going." 

"Then  will  you  put  this  flask  of  brandy  into 
your  pocket,  miss  ?  I  don't  like  to  give  it  to  the 
missus.     It's  kinder  suggestive  like." 

She  took  the  little  bottle,  and  while  he  helped 
her  on  with  her  waterproof  cloak  he  spoke  again 
in  his  kindly  Northumbrian  familiarity  : 

•'It's  a  good  thing  we've  got  Mr.  Trist  with  us 
this  night,  that  it  is  !  He's  what  Captain  Barrow 
would  call  a  strong  tower." 

Brenda  smiled  rather  wanly  as  she  hurried 
away. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  ''I  am  very  glad  we 
have  him  to  rely  upon." 

Mrs.  Wylie  seemed  scarcely  to  notice  that  Bren- 
da stepped  into  the  bout  and  sat  down  beside  her. 
The  little  lady  was  making  a  brave  fight  against 
her  growing  anxiety.  She  even  laughed  when 
the  sail  filled  with  a  loud  flap,  and  nearly  precipi- 
tated Cobbold  into  the  water.  Crouching  low, 
the  two  women  sat  in  silence.  It  was  now  blow- 
ing stiffly,  and  perhaps  Cobbold  would  have  done 
better  to  take  a  reef  in  the  light  sail  ;  but  in  hia 
anxiety  to  reach  the  river  without  delay  he  risked 
the  lives  of  his  two  passengers  more  freely  than  he 
would  have  dared  to  do  in  a  cooler  moment.  As 
is  usually  the  case,  his  confidence  was  greater 
under  excitement,  and  no  mishap  befell  the  little 
boat. 


A.  SFOR  TSMAN  'S  DBA  TU,  69 


CHAPTER  VIL 
A  spoetsman's  death. 

When"  they  reached  the  month  of  the  river  they 
found  the  long-boat  lying  alongside  the  huge 
shelving  rock  used  as  a  landing-stage  on  account 
of  its  convenience  during  all  varieties  of  tide. 

The  man  watching  there  had  heard  or  seen  noth- 
ing of  Mr.  Trist  or  Admiral  Wylie.  The  ladies 
sat  for  some  time  in  the  stern  of  the  gig,  wrapped . 
in  their  waterproof  cloaks,  without  speaking. 
Then  Brenda  begged  to  be  landed.  She  was 
.shivering  with  cold  and  anxiety.  She  walked 
slowly  up  the  smooth  surface  of  the  rock  and  dis- 
appeared. Once  out  of  sight  of  the  two  boats 
which  lay  heaving  softly  on  the  bosom  of  the 
rising  tide,  she  quickened  her  pace,  keeping  to 
the  narrow  path  trodden  on  the  peaty  soil  by  Ad- 
miral Wylie  and  Theo  Trist  in  turn.  It  was  prob- 
able that  the  human  beings  who  had  passed  along 
that  scarcely  visible  track,  from  the  days  of  the 
Flood  down  to  the  time  that  this  little  English 
maiden  pressed  her  way  through  the  silver-birch 
trees,  could  be  counted  upon  the  fingers  of  two 
hands.  There  was  nothing  to  attract  the  curious 
up  the  deep  gorge  formed  by  this  unknown  stream. 
Far  inland,  over  impassable  rocks,  lay  the  corner 
of  a  huge  glacier  from  whence  the  river  received 
its  chill  waters.  There  was  no  natural  beauty  to 
draw  thither  the  artist,  no  animal  life  to  attract 


ya  strsfENSE. 

the  naturalist,  no  vast  height  to  tempt  the  monn- 
taiuoer.  Here  century  after  century  the  trout 
had  lain,  head  up  stream,  to  catch  what  God  miglit 
send  them.  In  the  lower  waters,  year  after  year, 
the  sturdy  salmon  had  pressed  past  each  other 
through  rill  and  whirlpool,  with  gills  flattened  to 
the  fresh  cool  waters  of  the  snow-lield. 

lu  all  human  probability  no  woman's  footprint 
had  impressed  itself  upon  that  turf  before. 
■  The  valley  took  a  turn  westward  round  a  great 
sloping  forest  of  pine  and  silver-birch,  harmoni- 
ously mingled,  about  half  a  mile  from  the  sea,  and 
soon  afterward  the  hills  closed  menacingly  over 
the  noisy  river.  The  water  hero  was  very  rough 
and  broken.  At  times  a  great  smooth  pool,  half 
an  acre  in  extent,  twenty  feet  in  depth,  would 
lie  at  the  foot  of  a  series  of  roaring  waterfalls  of  no 
great  height,  but  infinite  variety.  Again,  tliei'e 
were  long  broken  rapids,  which  only  a  salmon 
could  expect  to  stern,  and  here  and  there  smooth 
runs  almost  navigable  for  a  boat. 

Regardless  of  peaty  pool  and  treacherous  rivu- 
lets running  over  brilliant  turf,  Brenda  hurried 
on.  The  mere  bodily  fatigue  was  a  comfort  to 
her,  the  very  act  of  breaking  the  small  branches 
in  her  way  a  solace.  It  was  now  nearly  midnight, 
and  already  on  tlie  snow-fiekl  above  her  the  pearly 
pink  light  of  morning  rrept  on  its  glistening  way. 
The  twilight  w:ia  no  longer  lowering,  but  full  of 
fresh  promise.  A  new  day  softly  smiled  upon  the 
silent  land  which  had  known  no  night;  but  to 
the  solitary  girl  it  brought  little  hope. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  listened  intently.  A 
distant  crackle  of  dry  wood  beneath  a  human 
tread  repeated  itself.  Some  one  was  approaching 
rapidly. 


A  SPOR  TSMA  N  'S  DEA  TH.  7 1 

A  moment  later  Theo  Trist  stood  before  her, 
but  she  scarcely  recognized  him.  Her  first  feeling 
was  one  of  utter  surprise  that  his  meek  eyes  could 
look  so  resolute.  The  man's  face  was  changed, 
and  he  who  stood  before  Breuda  was  not  the  well- 
bred,  quiet  gentleman,  but  the  lost  soldier.  She 
did  not  realize  then  that  he  had  been  fifteen  hours 
on  his  feet  with  hardly  any  food.  She  scarcely 
noticed  that  his  clothes  were  wet,  and  clinging 
to  his  limbs,  and  that  he  was  without  his  water- 
proof. All  she  saw,  all  she  had  eyes  for,  was  that 
strange  incongruous  face  where  resolution  domi- 
nated so  suddenly. 

He  it  was  who  broke  the  silence,  and  he  was 
forced  to  shout,  because  they  were  so  close  to 
the  river. 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Wylie  ?"  he  asked. 

"  She  is  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,"  replied 
Brenda — "  in  the  boat,  waiting." 

''  Come  away  !  "  he  shouted,  beckoning  with 
his  head,  and  they  moved  through  tlie  pine- wood 
further  inland,  where  the  brawl  of  the  streani  was 
less  disagreeable. 

Then  he  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked  down 
into  her  face  with  unconscious  scrutiny. 

"  Yon  must  go  back  to  her,  Brenda,"  he  said, 
*'and  tell  her  that  Admiral  Wylie  is  dead.  I 
found  him  in  a  whirlpool  about  half  a  mile  above 
here." 

''When  was  that?''  asked  the  girl  mechani- 
cally. 

"  Oh,  an  hour  ago.  I  have  been  all  this  time 
in  the  water  recovering  .  .  .  getting  him  ashore." 

*'  Was  he  quite  dead  ?" 

*'  Quite  dead.  It  must  have  happened  early  in 
the  day,  for  his  lunch  was  still  in  his  creel," 


72  SUSPENSE. 


<( 


Where  is  he  .  .  .  now?"  whispered  Bronda. 
looking  through  the  trees  from  wliicli  Trist  had 
emerged. 

''Through  there,  on  the  bank.  I  begun  carry- 
ing him  down  to  the  boat,  but  had  to  give  it 
up." 

She  said  nothing,  but  moved  a  step  or  two  to- 
ward the  spot  indicated.  Then  he  took  her  hand 
witliin  his  and  led  the  way.  Presently  they  came 
out  of  the  thicker  wood  on  to  the  rocky  ground 
near  the  river,  and  soon  afterward  came  into  sight 
of  a  still  form  lying  on  the  turf  beneath  Trist's 
waterproof.  Tiiere  were  stones  on  the  corners  of 
the  mackintosh  to  prevent  it  being  blown  away, 
but  the  wind  penetrated  between  them  and  the 
stuff  rippled  with  a  slight  sound.  The  upper  part 
of  the  body  only  was  covered,  and  there  was,  in 
the  wet  waders  and  misshapen  brogues,  a  sug- 
gestion of  simple  pride.  In  bad  weather  the 
Admiral  had  always  fished  in  an  old  black  sou'- 
wester, and  this  lay  by  his  side  with  his  creel 
and  rod.  The  old  sportsman  had  died  in  harness, 
with  the  auick  burr-r-rof  the  reel  sounding  in  his 
ears  and  a  *'  taut  line  "  bending  his  rod  ;  for 
Trist  found  the  gut  broken. 

The  man  who  had  looked  on  death  so  often,  who 
had  slept  amidst  the  groans  of  the  dying  and  the 
heart-rending  cries  of  the  sore-wounded,  now 
knelt  and  simply  drew  back  the  covering  from 
the  still,  gray  face.  Death  was  so  familiar  to  him 
that  the  sight  of  it  brought  no  shock,  and  he 
scarcely  realized  what  he  was  doing.  Mechani 
cally  Brenda  knelt  down  on  the  turf,  her  dress 
touching  the  dead  man's  hand.  For  some  mo- 
ments she  remained  thus,  while  the  rosy  light  of 
dawn  crept  down  the  mountain  side,     Behind  her 


J  SPO/?  TSMAN 'S  DEA  TH.  7^ 

stood  Trist,  silently  watching.  Presently  he 
looked  round  and  noted  the  increase  of  daylight ; 
then  he  touched  her  shoulder. 

*'  Come,  Brenda/"  he  said.  *"'  The  day  is  break- 
ing. AVe  must  go.  I  will  walk  back  with  you  to 
the  boat." 

She  rose  and  shook  her  head  decisively. 

•'  No,"  she  answered.  "  You  muststfiy  here — 
beside  him.  1  will  go  back  alone.  It  is  better 
for  me  to  tell  Mrs.  AVylie." 

''  You  are  not  afraid  ?  "  he  inquired. 

''No.     I  am  not  afraid." 

She  spoke  in  her  simple,  quiet  way,  which  was 
not  without  a  certain  force,  despite  her  gentlo 
voice.  It  was  no  boast  of  courage  that  she  was 
making,  but  a  plain  statement  of  fact.  She  was 
not  afraid,  because  she  felt  that  it  was  her  duty, 
and  no  soldier  ever  possessed  a  clearer,  braver 
sense  of  duty  than  did  Brenda  Gilholme. 

Trist  walked  by  her  side  a  few  paces. 

"I  wish,"  he  said,  "  that  I  could  have  spared 
you  some  of  this." 

*'  Do  not  think  of  me,"  she  replied.  *'  You 
seem  to  consider  me,  Theo,  a  weak,  foolish  girl, 
who  should  be  spared  every  little  pain  and 
trouble." 

"  I  should  like  .  .  ."  he  began,  and  then  he 
stopped  abruptly,  so  mnch  so  as  to  cause  an  av'k- 
ward  silence.  "  Well."  he  added  at  length  in  a 
different  tone,  ''I  will  wait  here— but  you  must 
not  come  back.  Send  one  of  the  men — the 
stronger  of  the  two  :  Cobbold." 

**l"  think  both  the  men  had  better  come,"  she 
suggested.  They  were  now  standing  beneath  the 
small,  stunted  pines,  upon  a  silent  carpet  of  dead, 
sweet-scented  needles.     As  she  spoke  she  looked 


74  SUSPENSE. 

up  into  his  face  with  a  quiet  scrutiny  which  was 
full  of  suggestive  anxiety. 

^'  Why  V  he  asked,  Avith  a  faint  smile. 

**  Because  you  must  be  completely  exhausted. 
You  have  been  on  your  feet  for  nearly  twenty- 
four  hours.  Besides,  you  are  wet  through,  and 
dragged  down  by  the  weight  of  your  clothes." 

''  I  am  wet,"  he  admitted,  "but  not  tired.  It 
is  my  profession  to  ignore  fatigue.  Send  Cob- 
bold,  Brenda  !  The  other  man  must  stay  with 
you." 

He  drew  back  some  branches  for  her  to  pass 
unscratched  throngh  the  thicket,  but  did  not  offer 
to  accompany  her  any  further. 

"  Will  you  not  let  me  come  ?"  he  asked  again 
as  she  passed  him.  ''  This  is  a  horrible  task  you 
have  set  yourself." 

She  stood  beside  him  for  a  moment  beneath  his 
upraised  arm,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her. 
Her  shoulder  was  almost  touching  his  wet  coat, 
which  hung  loosely.  All  around  them  the  trees 
dripped  mournfully,  while,  through  the  low  en- 
tanglement the  voice  of  the  mournful  river  sang 
its  ancient  dirge. 

"It  is  only  my  share  of  the  task,"  she  answered. 
"  Whv  sliouid  vou  have  it  all  to  do — Thoo  ?  Be- 
sides  ...  I  never  expected  life  to  be  all  sun- 
shine." 

He  answered  nothing,  and  she  went  forward 
slowly,  almost  reluctantly,  from  beneath  the 
branches  he  was  holding  up.  To  them  both  there 
seemed  something  pleasant,  some  vague  sugges- 
tion of  comfort,  in  her  thought  that  this  was  a 
task  they  had  to  perform  in  common,  each  doing 
a  worthy  share.  At  a  later  period  there  came 
another  task  for  them  to  perform,  and  the  mutual 


A  SPOR  TSMAN  'S  DEA  TH.  75 

trnst  which  was  now  planted  grew  into  an  up- 
right tree.  They  did  not  know  that  the  burden 
of  it  was  to  fall  chiefly  on  the  weaker  shonlders, 
as  they  parted,  after  having  tacitly  apportioned 
the  work  that  lay  before  them. 

The  girl  went  her  way,  revolving  in  her  quick 
and  capable  brain  all  that  she  was  so  suddenly 
called  upon  to  do  ;  while  the  man,  left  by  the  still 
form  that  lay  upon  the  turf,  was  already  organiz- 
ing things  in  an  experienced,  practical  way.  It 
happened  that  he  was  never  to  carry  out  his  own 
plans,  but  he  did  not  suspect  this  at  the  time  ; 
he  had  no  presentiment  that  he  was  to  be  called 
away  to  other  work — nobler,  braver  work — leav- 
ing this  sorrrowful  task  half  done  in  the  hands 
of  her  who  had  volunteered  to  be  his  lieutenant. 

Before  the  sun's  rays  had  crept  down  the  bare 
mountain  side  to  the  sea,  the  tAVO  boats  moved 
away  from  the  rock  that  seemed  to  guard  the 
mouth  of  the  river. 

In  the  gig — the  first  boat  to  get  away —  were 
seated  Mrs.  Wylie  and  Brenda,  while  the  sailor, 
Cobbold,  steered.  Trist  followed  hi  the  long- 
boat, steering  himself,  while  the  sailor  crouched 
down  forward.  Between  the  two  men  lay,  be- 
neath the  thwarts,  the  genial,  kind-hearted  old 
sportsman,  who  would  never  hear  the  glad  rattle 
of  tlie  reel  again,  who  would  no  more  watch,  with 
keen,  dancing  eyes,  the  straining  line.  Never 
again  would  "he  recount  his  day's  adventures  in 
the  cozy  cabin,  giving  the  salmon  his  full  due, 
throwing  in  here  and  there  a  merry  little  detail 
to  his  own  discomfiture.  Now  he  lay.  with  his 
waders  slowly  drying,  his  eyes  peacefully  closed, 
his  brown,  weather-beaten  hands  limply  clenched. 
Trist  had  reeled  in  the  severed  line,  divided  the 


76  SUSPENSE. 

useless  rod,  and  laid  aside  tlie  empty  creel,  all  in 
his  silent,  emotionless  way,  with  no  look  of  horror 
in  his  soft  eyes. 

To  him  the  suddenness  of  Admiral  Wylie's 
death  was  no  shock.  He  had  seen  the  Reaper  at 
work  before,  and  this  was  ripe  corn,  ready  for 
the  sickle — a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  brave  young 
stalks  he  had  seen  mown  down  in  thousands.  He 
had  a  strange,  semi-Biblical  contempt  for  death 
in  itself.  The  mere  ceremony  of  dying  "was  for 
him,  as  it  was  for  the  Apostles  and  writers  of  old, 
a  matter  of  small  interest.  They  tell  of  lives,  and 
not  of  deaths.  Trist  loved  to  watch  men  live  and 
strive  and  fight ;  to  see  them  die  caused  him  small 
emotion  ;  to  hear  them  speak  last  explanatory 
words,  full  of  repentance,  perhaps,  or  pharisaical 
self-exoneration,  moved  him  to  gentle  pity,  but 
altered  in  no  whit  or  jot  his  estimate  of  the  life 
that  was  done. 

Admiral  Wylie's  life  had  been  a  success.  His 
death  had  been  a  worthy  finish  to  a  quiet,  homely 
tale — the  only  dramatic  point  of  interest  in  along, 
uneventful  course  of  daily  incidents.  He  died,  as 
Trist  said  later  to  an  old  soldier,  in  his  waders. 
Most  men  would  prefer  to  die  in  their  boots  ;  it  is 
a  more  manly  way  of  taking  that  last  step  over 
the  brink  into  the  unfathomable  waters  of  eter- 
nity. And  waders,  sea-boots,  or  Hessians  will 
hamper  no  man's  tread  upon  the  Silent  Shore,  if 
he  have  only  picked  his  steps  through  the  mud 
that  lies  on  this  side. 

In  the  gig  the  two  women  sat  without  speaking, 
while  the  water,  surging  and  bubbling  beneath 
bow  and  stern,  seemed  to  chatter  garrulously. 
Mrs.  Wylie  leant  back  against  the  cushions  witli 
her  arras  folded  beneath  her  cloak.     The  raiu  had 


A  SPORTSMAN'S  DEATH.  >ji 

ceased,  and  great  white  clouds  hovered  far  above 
the  mountains.  All  around  was  fresh  and  fair, 
like  a  maiden  smiling  with  tears  still  on  her 
lashes. 

Brenda  sat  upright,  ready,  as  it  were,  for  any- 
thing. She  liad  told  Mrs.  AVylie  simply  and 
straightforwardly  that  Theo  Trist  had  found  the 
Admiral — dead  ;  and  the  news  had  been  received 
quietly  and  composedly.  Mrs.  Wylie  was  one  of 
those  rare  women  who  are  really  and  truly  inde- 
pendent of  outside  opinion.  She  passed  through 
her  joys  and  sorrows  as  seemed  best  to  her  own 
judgment,  and  left  the  world  to  form  its  own 
opinion. 

Many  there  are  who  have  the  courage  to  face  a 
great  grief  with  bold  front  and  unflinching  eyes, 
but  they  fear  to  be  considered  hard  and  heartless. 
Happy  is  the  man  or  woman  who  can  look  back  to 
a  period  of  sorrow  without  having  to  regret  an 
excess  of  some  description — excess  of  demonstra- 
tion or  excess  of  reserve.  Mrs.  Wylie  was  not  a 
demonstrative  woman.  She  laughed  readily,  in 
her  cheery,  infectious  way,  because  she  found 
that  laughter  is  wanted  in  the  world  ;  but  she 
rarely  wept,  because  she  knew  that  tears  are  idle. 
And  so  no  tears  came  to  her  eyes  when  Brenda 
laid  her  soft,  warm  hands  upon  her  arm  and  told 
her  the  news.  The  two  men  had  stood  a  little 
way  off,  respectfully,  so  that  they  were  practically 
alone,  but  if  Mrs.  Wylie  ever  shed  tangible,  visi- 
ble tears  for  her  husband,  she  shed  them  in  soli- 
tude, and  spoke  her  thouglits  to  none. 

All  through  that  terrible  journey  up  the  fjord 
(for  the  wind  was  light  at  dawn,  as  it  mostly  is  iu 
Arctic  seas),  Brenda  waited  for  those  tears  that 
jieyer  came — listened  for  the   word?  that  were 


fS  SUSPENSE. 

never  spoken.  She  stared  straight  in  front  of 
her  toward  the  Ilermione,  and  never  actually 
looked  into  her  cornpanion's  face  ;  but  she  knew 
the  expression  that  was  there — the  slightly  raised 
lower  lids,  the  close-pressed  lips,  and  the  far-ofT 
speculation  in  the  eyes. 

A  little  way  behind  them  the  long-boat  was  forg- 
ing through  the  water.  Brenda  could  hear  the 
plashing  of  the  divided  waves  round  its  curved 
stern  ;  but  the  sound  neither  approached  nor  re- 
ceded, and  she  never  turned  her  head  to  see  how 
it  might  faro  with  the  mournful  freight.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  this  little  maid  was  realizing 
that  there  was  earnest  work  in  the  world  for  her 
to  do,  that  there  was  a  place  which,  but  for  her, 
must  needs  remain  vacant,  because  none  other 
could  fill  it.  She  knew  and  recognized  that  Mrs. 
"Wylie  needed  some  one  in  her  great  sorrow — 
needed  a  woman,  needed  her — Brenda  Gilholme. 
No  one  else  could  satisfy  this  vague  craving  for  a 
silent  sympathy,  not  even  Theo  Trist,  with  his 
man's  stretigth  and  his  woman's  tact. 

And  so  Brenda  was  content  to  be  in  the  house  of 
mourning,  because  she  felt  that  her  rightful  place 
was  there,  and  the  feeling  quenched  in  a  small  de- 
gree that  feverish  thirst  to  be  doing  something — 
some  good  in  the  world — which  burnt  her  brave 
young  soul,  parched  by  the  acrid  after-taste  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge. 

There  was  work  for  Theo  Trist— tangible,  hon- 
est work — and  there  was  also  labor  for  Brenda's 
hands  and  heart  :  a  thousand  little  alleviating  at- 
tentions, delicate,  shy  sympathies,  and  a  constant 
companionable  courage  ;  none  of  which  she  had 
learnt  in  Latin,  Greek  or  Hebrew  ;  which  cannot 
be  detiued  by  Euclid,  summed  up  by  ulgebru  uoi* 


A  JOINT  COMMAND.  79 

Talued  by  arithmetic.  In  fact,  Brenda  Gilholme 
was  verging  on  the  discovery  that  the  most  impor- 
tant part  of  her  dainty  anatomy  was  her  heart, 
and  not  her  liead. 

The  gig  ran  alongside,  and  Brenda,  stepping 
on  deck,  tirst  said  a  few  hurried  words  to  Captain 
Barrow  and  the  steward,  who  were  standing  to- 
gether at  the  companion.  Tlien  tiie  smaller 
boat  moved  away,  and  the  long-boat  took  its  place. 

*'  The  Lord  gives,  and  the  Lord  takes  away  ; 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord  !  '"  said  Captain 
Barrow,  looking  severely  at  the  steward,  with  the 
honest  salt  tears  running  down  his  cheeks  as  the 
two  men  received  the  cold  burden  from  the  arms 
of  Trist  and  Barker. 

Brenda  turned  slowly  and  looked  into  Theo 
Trist's  face,  on  which  there  was  even  now  no  sign 
of  fatigue.  He  had  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  on 
hearing  Captain  Barrow's  simple  words,  and  now 
they  looked  at  each  other  in  a  strangely  wonder- 
ing way.  Neither  had  thought  of  the  Hand 
whose  work  this  was  until  that  moment. 


CHAPTER  YIIL 

A     JOIliT     COMMAND. 

So  the  joint  command  of  the  Hermione  lapsed 
into  new  hands — the  man's  command  above  decks, 
and  the  woman's  rule  below. 

In  both  regions  the  new  director  stepped  into 
the  vacant  place  quietly,  unostentatiously,  and 
confidently.     Old  Captain  Barrow  was  as  the  pot- 


go  SUSPENSE. 

ter's  clay  in  Trist's  gentle,  yet  firm  hands.  The 
V'ung  fellow's  strange,  subtle  influence  soon  made 
itself  felt  upon  the  men.  The  Admiral  had 
ruled  by  genial  heartiness,  coupled  with  the  force 
of  past  experience  implied  by  his  title  ;  the  young 
journalist  (who  did  not  pretend  to  be  a  sailor)  e7i- 
forced  obedience  by  the  magnetic  attraction  of  his 
implacable  will. 

Mrs.  Wylie  uttered  no  complaint,  sued  for  no 
sympathy — she  was  simply  stunned — and,  in  hor 
imperious  little  way,  Brenda  took  over  jill  the 
smaller  hoasehold  duties,  assumed  all  minor  re- 
sponsibilities, and  gave  the  widow  no  rest. 

She  forced  her  to  take  an  interest  in  smaller 
things,  and  allowed  no  time  for  thought.  She 
herself  literally  put  her  to  bed  by  the  light  of  the 
morning  sun,  and  calmly  announced  her  intention 
of  sharing  the  state-room.  The  Admiral  was  car- 
ried below,  and  laid  on  Trist's  bed,  and  the  latter 
moved,  next  day,  into  the  room  vacated  by  Brenda. 

For  him  there  was  no  rest  that  night.  He  did 
not  even  change  the  clothes  in  which  he  had  been 
swimming  a  few  hours  before,  while  bringing 
ashore  the  dead  man.  By  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  Hermione  was  ready  for  sea — awning 
furled,  stanchions  stowed  away,  and  the  great  sails 
shaken  out. 

About  this  time  Brenda  came  on  deck.  She 
looked  round  for  a  moment  in  utter  surprise  at 
the  changed  appearance  of  the  ship  ;  then  she 
walked  aft,  to  where  Trist  was  standing  near  the 
rail  talking  in  a  low  voice  to  Nielsen,  who,  hur- 
riedly summoned,  had  come  on  board  to  pilot  the 
yacht  down  the  Heimdalfjord. 

The  Englishman's  back  was  turned  toward  her 
and  he  did  not  licar  iier  light  tread  upon  the  deck 


A  JOINl^  COMMAND.  Si 

bnt  his  companion  raised  his  rough  sable  hat 
respectfully,  and  Trist  turned  round  at  once. 
Brenda  saw  that  he  noticed  her  black  dress,  and 
involuntarily  glanced  down  at  his  own  shabby 
tweed  suit, which  was  discolored  and  wrinkled. 

*'Have  you  had  anv  rest?'*  were  his  first 
words. 

•'•'Yes;  thank  you.  I  slept  for  at  least  two 
hours."  She  smiled  a  little  as  she  looked  at  hiui, 
and  his  glance  rested  on  her  faultlessly  dressed 
hojid,  her  dainty  form,  and  proud  little  face. 

••  And  Mrs.  Wylie  ?  "  he  inquired  softly. 

**  She  is  sleeping  now." 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  they  both  turned, 
standing  side  by  side,  looking  forward  to  where 
the  men  were  at  work  with  the  anchor.  Nielsen 
had  left  them,  and  was  talking  to  Captain  Barrow 
on  the  forecastle. 

*'  Captain  Barrow,"  he  explained,  in  a  tone 
which  in  some  way  implied  a  joint  control,  "  has 
got  already  for  sea.  The  tide  begins  to  run  down 
at  half-past  seven,  when  we  will  get  in  the  anchor 
and  go." 

She  nodded  her  head  wisely  and  gravely,  like  a 
field-officer  receiving  a  brother-commander's  report 
— receiving  it,  moreover,  with  satisfaction. 

"You  have  been  very  prompt,"  she  murmured 
fninkly,  as  she  looked  round  and  mentally  noted 
tiio  work  that  ha'l  been  done. 

Tie  turned  his  head  hastily,  as  if  about  to  begin 
some  lengthy  explanation  or  to  assign  a  reason  for 
his  promptitude,  but  seemed  to  change  his  mind, 
for  he  stood  looking  at  her  vaguely  for  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  his  eyes  away. 

At  tliis  moment  the  steward  came  toward  them 
with  his  gliding,  noiseless  steps.     He  was  carry- 


83  SUSP£NS£. 

ing  two  mugs  of  coffee — not  the  thin  cups  used 
iu  the  cabin,  but  rougli,  stout  mugs  intendtd  for 
deck  use.  Moreover,  he  brought  them  in  the  lid 
of  the  biscuit-box,  with  soiiic  biscuits  lying  round 
them,  as  he  brought  etirly  coiiee  every  morning  to 
whosoever  might  be  keeping  the  last  watch. 

He  stood  silently  in  front  of  Brenda,  and  made 
no  attempt  to  apologize  for  the  seamanlike  rough- 
ness of  the  repast,  Avhile  she  took  her  mug  and 
biscuit. 

Even  when  the  steward  had  left  them,  Trist 
made  no  remark  respecting  this  tacit  treatment 
of  Brenda  as  an  officer  of  the  ship  ;  and  she  it 
was  who  broke  the  silence,  speaking  slowly  and 
suggestively,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  ajiprove  or 
propose  an  amendment.  It  was  absurdly  like  the 
report  of  a  junior  departmental  commander  to  his 
senior. 

•'  Oh,  Theo,"  she  said,  "  I  have  moved  most  of 
my  things  into  the  large  stateroom,  as  I  think  it 
will  bo  better  for  me  to  sleep  with  Mrs.  Wylie. 
You  can  go  into  my  cabin  as  soon  as  you  like  now 
— the  steward  and  I  have  put  it«all  right  for  you." 

••'  Thank  you  !"  he  said,  sipping  his  coffee. 

''  "Will  you  not  go  and  change  now  ?  It  cannot 
bo  good  to  keep  on  those  clothes." 

"•Not  yet,"  he  answered,  with  asmile.  "  They 
are  quite  dry  now,  and  the  sun  is  shining,  so  I  am 
warm.  Besides,  there  are  one  or  two  things  I 
want  to  ask  your  opinion  about,  and  we  may  not 
have  the  chance  later  on." 

lie  moved  a  little,  and  she,  falling  into  his  step, 
walked  by  his  side.  Thus  they  paced  backward 
and  forward  slowly  in  the  early  morning  splendor 
— she  neat,  trim,  and  lightsome  ;  he  wearv,  worn, 
Rntidj,  but  strong   and   restful — until  tliey  had 


A  JOINT  COMMAND.  Zj^ 

consulted  mtittially  npon  certain  points  requiring 
immediate  decision.  When  they  ha.d  iinished 
their  coffee  and  biscuit,  each  swung  the  empty 
mug  idly,  one  finger  curled  through  the  handle, 
with  unconscious  youthful uess  of  gesture. 

"  The  nearest  village,"  he  began  in  his  meek 
way,  *'  is  Fjaerholm  ;  we  shall  be  there  by  this 
time  to-morrow  with  a  fair  breeze.  There  is  a 
church  there  and  a  churchyard,  although  the  vil- 
lage itself  is  a  tiny  place,  almost  surrounded  by 
glaciers,  and  rarely  visited.  It  will  hardly  do, 
perhaps,  to  approach  the  question  yet,  but  if  we 
can  find  out  before  we  leave  the  Heimdalfjord 
what  Mrs.  AVylie's  opinion  is,  it  will  simplify  mat- 
ters. Whether,  I  mean,  we  are  to  make  for  Fjaer- 
holm, with  the  view  of  burying  him  there,  or  to 
go  down  the  Sogufjord,  catch  a  steamer  to  Bergen, 
and  go  home.'*' 

There  was  a  short  pause  when  he  had  finished 
speaking.  Brenda  appeared  to  be  lost  in  a  reverie. 
At  length  she  spoke. 

"  Which  course  do  you  recommend,  Theo  ?  " 
she  asked. 

''  My  opinion  can  be  of  little  value.  It  is  a 
matter  of  personal  feeling  which  only  Mrs.  Wylie 
can  decide." 

**  Yes.  But  she  may  be  in  that  frame  of  mind 
"where  a  decided  opinion — your  opinion — might 
be  a  comfort  to  her." 

As  she  made  this  suggestion  she  turned  her  head 
and  looked  up  to  see  whether  he  had  fully  grasped 
her  meaning,  and  he  nodded  his  head  slightly, 
admitting  that  her  argument  might  very  well  be 
of  value. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Brenda,"  he  said  apologetically, 
'*  that  I  am  rather  hard  and  practical  in  these 


g4  SUSPENSE. 

matters.  My  opinion  is  that  Fjaerholm  church- 
yard is  as  good  as  any  other.  It  would  be  a  horri- 
ble journey  home  for  her  and  .  .  .  for  you." 

"I  think  Fjaerholm  would  be  best." 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Wylie  may 
have  decided  feelings  on  the  subject,  and  if  so  we 
must  give  in,  and  leave  the  Hermione  ;  though  I 
think  she  will  be  better  here  among  her  own  sur- 
roundings than  on  board  a  crowded  passenger 
steamer — an  object  of  curiosity  and  ostentatious 
sympathy." 

*'  I  do  not  think,"  said  the  girl,  after  a  short 
pause,  "that  she  will  be  influenced  by  any  mis- 
taken sentiment." 

"  Nor  I.  And  of  course  it  is  mere  sentiment. 
We  English  have  a  way  of  leaving  our  dead  all 
over  the  world,  and  no  doubt  there  are  more  of 
us  in  the  sea  than  of  any  other  nation." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  vague,  wistful  way.  At 
times  she  failed  to  understand  him.  There  were 
certain  humors  which  came  over  him  at  odd  times 
— hard  practical  humors  of  which  the  heartlessness 
seemed  assumed  and  unnatural — and  of  these  she 
could  not  detect  the  motive. 

"  I  will  try,"  she  said,  "  to  find  out  Mrs. 
Wylie's  feelings  on  the  subject." 

**  Yes,  Breuda,  do  ! "  he  murmured,  in  a  way 
which  seemed  to  imply  that  the  matter  was  safe 
in  her  hands. 

They  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  in  silence 
— each  wrapt  in  individual  thought.  There  was 
a  little  frown  on  the  girl's  face,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible contraction  of  the  eyelids,  forming  a  slight 
perpendicular  wrinkle  which  might  deepen  and 
grow  permanent  with  sorrow  or  years.  The  clear, 
heavenly  blue  eyes  were  wide  open  and  somewhat 


A  JO  INT  COMMAND.  85 

restless,  and  in  the  whole  face  there  was  that  in- 
tangible, indescribable  presence  which  we  call 
intellect,  because  we  dare  not  call  it  soul. 

Suddenly  Trist  stopped  and  looked  down  at  her 
so  persistently  that  she  was  forced  to  raise  her 
eyes. 

"  Don't  !  "  he  said  ambiguously,  with  his  slow, 
deprecating  smile. 

She  laughed  in  a  short,  curious  tone,  and 
changed  color. 

"Don't  what?" 

"  Don't  think  about  me/'  he  said  with  sudden 
earnestness. 

For  a  moment  an  expression  of  pain  rested  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  opened  her  lips  as  if  about  to 
speak  ;  but  he  bade  her  keep  silence  with  an  ad- 
monishing sliake  of  the  head,  and  she  stood  with 
slightly  parted  lips  looking  up  into  his  unreadable 
face. 

"  Don't !  "  he  murmured  again,  and  moved  for- 
ward decisively.  They  continued  to  walk  in 
silence  for  some  moments. 

"  How  did  you  know  that  I  was  thinking  of 
you  ?"  she  asked  quietly,  at  length. 

"  I  can  always  tell.  There  is  a  peculiar  stony 
silence  which  comes  over  you  at  times,  and  1 
always  feel  its  presence.  Very  often  you  remain 
without  speaking  for  some  time,  but  that  is  a  dif- 
ferent silence,  and  then  without  looking  toward 
you  I  feel  suddenly  that  the  other  has  come — that 
the  other  has  come  .  .  .  Brenda,  and  that  you 
are  thinking  about  me  !  " 

*'  You  ought  to  be  highly  gratified  ! "  she  ob- 
served with  a  lamentable  attempt  at  playfulness. 

"  And,"  he  continued  in  his  gently  deliberate 
way,  "  when  I  look  at  jou  the  same  expression  is 


M  SUSPENSE. 

always  there.  You  are  always  striving  to  say 
something  which  is  difTicult.  Don't  say  it, 
Brenda  I     If  it  is  a  question,  don't  ask  it." 

*'  Why  not  ?  '' 

^'  Because  those  things  are  better  left  unsaid — 
those  questions  are  better  left  unasked.  The  an- 
swer cannot  be  satisfactory." 

*'  Then  you  advocate  going  through  life  without 
ever  understanding  onr  fellow-creatures,  without 
ever  attempting  to  enter  into  each  other's  joys 
and  sorrows,  without  pitying,  sympatliizing,  or 
admiring  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not  go  so  far  as  that.  But  I  have 
no  patience  with  people  who  are  constantly  fish- 
ing for  sympathy,  constantly  confiding  imaginary 
woes  to  others  who  have  their  own  affairs  to  worry 
them.  You  should  never  seek  trouble,  Brenda. 
It  comes  only  too  naturally  of  its  own  free  will," 
he  said  in  a  quick,  anxious^Avay,  endeavoring  to 
keep  the  conversation  in  a  safe- and  general  chan- 
nel. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  answered,  after  a  long 
pause,  "that  stoicism  is  your  aim  and  creed.  To 
endure,  and  simply  to  endure,  is  your  estimate  of 
life.  He  who  endures  best,  who  carries  the 
brightest  face  before  the  world,  utters  the  fewest 
complaints,  and  deceives  most  successfully  his  fel- 
low-creatures, has  lived  the  best  life.  You  never 
try  to  see  a  meaning  in  it  all — you  never  seek  an 
ulterior  motive  which  is  only  and  solely  for  our 
good." 

"  My  dear  Brenda,"  said  Trist  with  animation, 
"  am  1  a  cripple  ?  Am  I  blind  or  dumb,  or  halt — 
that  I  have  aught  to  endure  ?" 

*'  You  have  something,"  was  the  grave  rejoinder. 
«•  There  is  something,  but  I  do  not  know  what  it 


A  jOIl^T  COMMA XD.  87 

is,  and  I  would  sooner  see  you  openly  miserable — • 
cynical,  heartless,  anything  but  what  you  are/' 

He  laughed  aloud,  and  she  shrugged  her 
shoulders  with  a  little  smile. 

"  You  should  really  devote  your  energies  to 
novel- writing/'  he  said  gaily.  "You  see  romance 
where  none  exists.  For  you,  indigestion  is  noth- 
ing else  than  a  broken  heart.  An  unfortunate 
gravity  of  demeanor  (like  mine)  means  a  canker- 
ing sorrow,  and  every  smile  is  hollow.'^ 

Xo  answering  smile  came  over  her  face,  and  she 
seemed  suddenly  to  remember  that  Mrs.  Wylio 
might  be  av/ake  and  requiring  her  presence. 

She  moved  away  a  little,  and  stood  watching 
the  men  at  work  forward  at  the  windlass.  Then 
she  turned  and  looked  past  him  across  the  sea. 

"  I  cannot  help  feeling,"  she  said,  "  that  in 
some  way  you  must  owe  me  a  grudge.  Of  course 
I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  in  reality  ;  but  she 
was  my  sister,  and  despite  your  denial,  despite 
your  forbearance  and  wonderful  charity,  you  must, 
in  your  inmost  heart,  blame  Alice." 

He  turned  his  meek  eyes  toward  her  face  with 
a  patient  smile. 

"My  dear  Brenda,"  he  said  reraonstratingly, 
'•what  firm  convictions  you  have!  Once  before 
—-long  ago — you  hinted  at  this  .  .  .  matter,  and 
in  reply  I  insinuated  that  Alice  was  nothing  to 
me.  Her  influence  has  no  weight  on  my  actions  ; 
it  in  no  way  affects  my  coming  or  my  going. 
Please  don't  think  of  me  and  my  affairs." 

She  moved  away  slowly,  reluctantly,  without 
replying,  gliding  across  tlie  deck  with  noiseless 
tread,  and  so  the  strange  interview  terminated 
vvith  a  curious  Questioning  silence  on  both  sides. 
There  was  sometiiing  that  she  did  not  dare  to  ask, 


&i  SUSPEA'SE. 

something  hci  dreaded,  for  his  eyes  were  dull  with 
a  great  .suspense  as  he  stood  watching  her  go  awa}^ 
from  him. 

Then  he  pnshed  back  from  his  forehead  the 
black  sou'-westor  ho  still  wore,  despite  the  bril- 
liant sunshine,  and  somewhat  wearily  wiped  his 
brow. 

There  was  about  this  man  a  strange,  uncanny 
quiet.  His  calm  eyes  were  not  devoid  of  intellect, 
as  most  calm  eyes  are  ;  his  month  and  chin  were 
not  those  of  a  sensuous,  self-indulgent  person.  In 
a  word,  his  repose  was  unnatural.  There  was  in 
his  being  a  vague  suggestion  of  endurance,  as 
Brenda  had  discovered.  Had  he  been  a  parson, 
one  would  have  said,  with  that  cni'eless,  casual 
judgment  of  our  fellows  which  is  so  often  terribly 
correct,  that  he  was  conscious  of  an  utter  unfit- 
ness for  priesthood.  Had  he  been  a  soldier,  one 
would  have  assigned  to  him  a  nervous  hatred  to- 
ward bloodshed  and  the  means  of  shedding  blood. 
But  he  had  chosen  his  own  profession,  and  in  it 
had  made  a  decided  mark.  It  was  one  of  those 
peculiar  callings  for  which  peculiar  men  are  spe- 
(jially  created  by  Providence — men  endowed  with 
incongruous  talents,  and  contradictory  habits  of 
thought  and  action.  Into  such  callings  men  are 
never  forced  ;  they  force  their  own  way,  or  they 
drift  into  some  other  means  of  making  a  liveli- 
hood, and,  possessing  no  peculiar  gifts,  nndvc  no 
l)eculiar  impression  upon  the  moral  and  mental 
sands  of  their  time. 

Theodore  Trist  was  undoubtedly  created  for  a 
special  purpose,  and  so  distinct  was  tlie  destina- 
tion, that  he  had,  without  tlio  aid  of  circumstance 
or  environment,  drifted  into  the  peculiar  line  of 
life  for  which  his  talents  were  intended.     He  was 


A  JOLVT  COMMAND.  8g 

a,  war-correspondent,  and  iiothing  else  (unless  it 
were  a  soldier,  in  Avhicli  profession  one  most  im- 
portant gift  would  have  been  lost — that  of  writhig 
critioally  and  brilliantly).  In  a  few  years  he  had 
climbed  the  unsteady  ladder  of  fame,  andAvasnow 
firmly  j)ln-nted  on  its  uppermost  rungs,  lie  pos- 
sessed health,  strength,  and  energy — there  was 
war  brooding  in  the  East — he  was  not  blind,  nor 
dumb,  uor  halt,  so  what  could  man  wish  for  more  ? 
Yet  Brenda  Gilliolme  told  him  to  his  face,  in  her 
thoughtful,  convincing  way,  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  life  that  called  for  a  stoical  endurance, 
and  he,  failing  to  laugli  scornfully,  denied  the 
accusation  with  visible  discomfort. 

After  she  had  left  the  deck  he  continued  to 
pace  slowly  fore  and  aft  by  himself.  Presently 
the  tide  turned,  and  the  anchor  came  clanking  up 
from  its  rocky  lodging.  The  huge  mainsail  spread 
its  broad  white  bosom  to  the  breeze,  and  the  Iler- 
niione  began  to  rise  and  fall  almost  imperceptibly. 
The  breeze  was  light,  but  the  vast  expanse  of  sail 
caught  every  passing  breath,  and  steerage-way 
was  soon  acquired.  Silently,  graciously  as  she 
had  arrived,  the  yacht  left  the  little,  forgotten 
corner  of  this  Northern  world,  rippling  through 
the  foamless  waters  with  stately  deliberation. 
Trist  took  no  part  in  the  well-drilled  hurry  that 
attended  the  departure.  He  was  no  sailor  ;  his 
command  was  not  the  loud-voiced  autocracy  of 
the  master  mariner.  It  was  subtle,  indefinite, 
immeasurable. 

On  the  bosom  of  the  receding  tide  the  Hermione 
left  those  still  waters.  Soon  she  passed  the  mouth 
of  the  river  where  Admiral  Wylie  had  met  his 
sportsman's  fate.  So  close  was  she  to  the  high 
land  that  the  flow  of  the  river  swung  her  round  « 


9©  SUSPENSE. 

little.  All  who  were  on  deck  instinctively  ceased 
their  occupations,  and  stood  with  idle  hands  gaz- 
ing thoughtfully  up  the  deserted  gorge.  Tiiey 
could  hour  the  hreeze  whispering  among  the  still 
pines,  murmuring  through  the  fniry  silver  birclies  ; 
and  behind,  in  a  perspective  of  sound,  the  echoing 
laugliter  of  the  river  in  its  rocivy  bed. 

Theo  Trist  stood  alone,  ii][)paroiitIy  emotionless, 
but  when  the  mouth  of  the  gorge  had  been  shut 
out  of  view  by  tlie  brown  slope  of  a  huge  hill. 
Captain  Barrow  came  and  stood  beside  him. 

"^  And  now,  Mr.  Trist,"  said  the  old  sailor, 
"  you'll  need  some  rest.  There's  a  time  for  all 
things — a  time  for  tears  and  a  time  for  laughter, 
a  time  for  woric  and  a  time  for  sleep." 

Trist  looked  at  the  old  man  in  a  vague,  semi- 
stupid  way. 

"  And  you  would  suggest  that  tliis  is  a  time  for 
sleep,  Captain  Barrow  ?  " 

"  Yes— I  would  that." 

Then  he  took  the  young  man's  arm,  and  gently 
forced  him  to  leave  the  deck. 

Trist  found  the  saloon  deserted.  He  passed 
into  his  new  state-room,  and  there  he  mechanically 
proceeded  to  make  some  sort  of  a  toilet,  A  suit 
of  blue  serge  was  the  darkest  he  possessed,  and 
this  he  donned,  toning  it  down  with  a  black  neck- 
tie. He  shaved  and  bathed  in  a  dull,  dignified 
way,  as  a  condemned  criminal  might  do  upon  the 
morning  of  his  execution — after  a  sleepless  night. 

Then  ho  returned  to  the  saloon.  The  steward 
was  setting  the  breakfast-table  in  the  forward  part 
of  the  cabin  near  the  mainmast,  where  the  dining- 
room  was  tacitly  understood  to  be.  Further  aft 
were  low  chairs,  a  sofa,  a  piano,  and  other  furni- 
ture, constituting  a  drawing-room, 


A  DIVIDED  RESPONSIBILITY.  gj 

Trisfc  sank  into  a  low  chair,  and  watched  the 
man's  quick,  noiseless  movements  with  perfunc- 
tory interest.  The  steward  glanced  toward  him, 
and  his  movements  became,  if  possible,  more  su- 
pernaturally  silent  than  before.  Then  suddenly 
his  long,  sallow  face  relaxed  into  a  satisfied  smile, 
and,  for  his  own  edification,  he  nodded  his  head  in 
a  pleased,  told-you-so  sort  of  manner. 

Trist  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  DIVIDED  EESPONSIBILITY. 

"  Theo  !  Theo  !  I  am  sorry  to  wake  yon  ! " 
Trist  was  a  man  who  threw  aside  the  heaviest 
sleep  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  was  in  full  posses- 
sion of  his  faculties — probably  making  active  use 
of  them — while  others  were  still  rubbing  their 
eyes.  The  touch  of  a  soft,  warm  little  hand  upon 
his  wrist  had  awakened  him  before  the  words 
imprinted  themselves  upon  his  brain.  Somehow 
he  remembered  them  afterward,  tlie  syllables 
themselves,  and  the  manner  in  which  they  were 
nttered. 

He  looked  np  with  a  smile,  and  met  Brenda's 
eyes.  She  was  leaning  over  his  chair,  and  when 
he  looked  up  she  stood  erect  with  her  white  hands 
hanging  before  her  against  the  soft  black  dress. 
She  had  learnt  something  at  Mrs.  Wylie's  school 
of  womanliness,  for  everything  about  her  was  as 
neat  and  trim  and  dauity  as  if  there  was   naught 


92  SC/SP£ArS£. 

else  to  think  of  than  the  braiding  and  coiling  of 
the  bright  brown  hair,  and  the  pinning  of  the 
sno^T  collar  round  her  throat. 

''  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Theo,"  she  re- 
peated. " 

"  Not  at  all/'  he  said.  "Why  should  you  be  ? 
It  is  ten  o'clock  ;  I  have  been  asleep  two  hours. 
What  more  could  I  require  ?  " 

'^•' I  have  kept  some  breakfast  warm  for  you," 
she  said,  turning  toward  the  table ;  "  but  I 
awakened  you  because  of  these.  There  are  four 
telegrams  and  a  number  of  letters  for  you.  ILui.s 
Olsen  brought  them  oft"  just  now.  He  got  tliom 
yesterday  from  the  Bergen  boat.  We  are  out  of 
Ihe  Heimdalfjord  now,  and  Nielsen  has  gone,  I 
.  .  .  only  hope  .  .   .  it  is  not  war,  Tiieo  !  " 

He  stood  up  and  took  the  telegrams  and  letters 
from  her  hands.  Then  he  crossed  the  saloon 
toward  the  table. 

"  It  looks  rather  like  it,"  he  said  coolly. 

He  raised  the  cover  of  the  dish  which  the  stew- 
ard had  just  placed  upon  the  table,  and  Brenda, 
taking  the  hint,  poured  out  his  coffee. 

She  walked  away  from  him  a  little  and  stood 
quite  motionless,  with  her  back  turned  toward 
him,  while  he  tore  open  the  thin,  white  telegraph 
envelopes.  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  four 
of  them,  spreading  the  paper  out  upon  the  table- 
cloth. Her  quick  ears  caught  each  sound,  and 
enabled  her  to  picture  every  movement  made  by 
this  indift'erent  man. 

''  Yes,  Brenda,  it  .   .  .   is  .   .   .   war  ! " 

She  turned  slowly  and  approaclied  the  table. 
Bending  over  it,  she  attended  to  his  requirements 
in  a  deftly  graceful  way,  grouping  rouiid  him  the 
toast,  butter,  and  marmalade.     He  was  studying 


A  DIVIDED  RESPONSIBILITY.  95 

a  telegram  spread  out  before  him,  but  his  fixed 
eyes  did  not  appear  to  be  taking  in  the  purport 
of  words  written  in  uneven  type.  Furtively  ho 
looked  toward  her  hands,  and  then  slowly  upward, 
terminating  in  one  scrutinizing  glance  into  her 
face. 

''  Where  ?  "  she  asked,  sitting  down  rather 
hastily  opposite  to  him. 

"  Servia  and  Montenegro  have  declared  war 
against  Turkey,"  he  replied,  busying  himself 
with  his  plate. 

''  And  you  must  go  ?  " 

He  stirred  hia  coffee  very  deliberately,  and,  rais- 
ing the  cup  to  his  lips,  took  a  long,  critical  sip. 

**  Yes,  Brenda,  I  must  go  !" 

There  are  few  more  silent  placea  than  the  cabin 
of  a  sailing  yacht  on  a  calm  day.  In  a  steamer  it 
is  different,  for  there  is  the  ever-beatiug  throb  of 
life  down  below,  in  the  engine-room,  which  is  half 
heard  and  half  felt.  But  on  a  sailing  yacht,  when 
the  rudder-chains  are  taut  and  the  breeze  steady, 
there  is  no  noise  whatever.  In  the  pretty  saloon  of 
the  Hermione  there  was  a  singular  absence  of  sound 
when  Trist  finished  speaking.  He  turned  again 
to  the  telegrams,  neglecting  his  breakfast.  Brendu 
thought  that  she  had  never  experienced  such  an 
utter,  breathless  silence.  Her  ears  seemed  to  tin- 
gle with  the  intensity  of  it,  and  in  her  brain  tliere 
was  a  sudden  vacuous  sensation.  She  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say,  although  she  strained  her  mind 
to  discover  some  means  of  breaking  this  dreadful 
pause. 

Furtively  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  at  the  same 
moment  Trist  looked  across  the  table  in  a  hurried 
shifty  way.  Their  eyes  met  for  a  brief,  agonizing 
second. 


94  SUSPENSE. 

'•'I  hope,"  said  Brenda  sweetly,  "that  your 
coffee  is  not  very  cold." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Oh,  no,  thank  you  !  It  is  very 
nice,"  he  replied  awkwardly,  looking  into  the 
cup  with  absorbing  interest. 

Her  question  appeared  to  call  him  back  from 
some  vague,  far-off  dream,  for  he  resolutely  began 
to  eat  ;  while  slie  hovered  round,  playing  the 
hostess  in  a  shy,  constrained  way.  Presently  he 
handed  the  open  telegrams  across  the  table  to  her. 

'•'  You  may  as  well  read  them,"  he  said  con- 
versationally. "  They  are  very  characteristic  of 
the  man  who  wrote  them." 

She  took  the  papers  and  read  in  a  semi-tone  : 

"  War — Servia,  Turkey — immuient.       Corne." 

Number  two  was  longer  : 

'*  Where  on  earth  are  you  ?  War.  Looh  sharp, 
Montenegro  is  in  it  too." 

Tlie  third  was  more  serious  : 

*'  Two  messages  without  reply.  Are  you  com- 
ing f  " 

Then  number  four  : 

"  Thei/  are  at  it  already.  It  will  be  a  had  busi- 
ness.     (Jome  at  once." 

She  returned  them  without  a  word  ;  and   he, 
seeing  thenecessity  of  saying  something,  remarked 
)leasautly  : 

-I,t  is   my  misfortune   to  be  required   in  two 
places  at  once,  or  not  at  all." 

She  stood  by  the  table  and  looked  at  the  date  of 
the  latest  .telegram.  The  four  messages  had  been 
despatched  within  two  days. 

''  Are  you  not,"  she  asked  innocently,  '*  too 
late  ?     It  may  be  all  over  now." 

He  glanced  up  at  her  in  a  curious,  laughing 
way. 


A  DJVfDED  RESPONSIBILITY. 


95 


**  N'o — I  am  afraid  not.  War  in  these  semi- 
barbaric  countries  is  like  an  illness  in  a  young 
person.  It  is  only  half  healed  beneath  a  decep- 
tive surface,  and  breaks  out  in  a  fresh  place." 

Again  she  took  up  the  telegrams.  It  seemed  as 
if  there  were  a  fascination  in  the  flimsy  papers 
which  she  could  not  resist. 

•''This  man  seems  to  look  upon  it  as  rather  a 
good  joke.     He  takes  the  matter  jovially." 

**  \es  !  He  takes  most  things  in  that  way.  It 
is  a  good  thing  for  him,  you  see.  Brings  up  the 
circulation  of  his  paper." 

"That,"  she  said  quietly,  **  is  a  very  practical 
wav  of  lookinar  at  war." 

Trist  appeared  to  ignore,  purposely,  the  slight 
reproach  conveyed  by  her  remark. 

''  War  is  a  practical  thing,"  he  replied.  "  This 
is  a  splendid  chance  for  me,  and  one  I  should  be 
sorry  to  miss.  It  is  not  a  surprise,  Brenda.  We 
all  knew  that  it  might  come  at  any  time,  but  I 
did  not  mention  it  because  the  knowledge  would 
only  have  been  unsettling,  and  I  did  not  think 
.  .  .  then  .  .  .  that  my  sudden  departure  would 
have  made  much  difference." 

She  looked  at  him  calmly  and  thoughtfully  before 
replying,  with  an  indifference  which  was  not  quite 
complimentary  : 

"  You  must  not  allow  this  .  .  .  this  calamity 
to  make  any  ditferencc.  I  quite  understand  the 
position  you  are  in.  Of  course  you  are  pledged 
to  this  man  ?  .  .   ." 

Trist  nodded  a  brief  acquiescence. 

''Then  you  must  go.  I  can  manage  quite  well 
alone.  Mrs.  Wylie  is  much  better  tliis  morning, 
though  she  is  still  dull  and  horribly  apathetic, 
"We  will  go  home  as  quickly  as  we  can," 


96  SUSPENSE. 

There  was  something  in  hor  voice,  a  slight  catch, 
which  he  could  not  understand,  and  of  course  he 
misread  it.  The  last  few  words  were  spoken  in  a 
peculiar  monotone,  with  feverish  haste. 

"I  feel  horribly  sellisli,"  lie  said,  '*  thinking  of 
my  own  atfairs  at  this  time.  Xo,  Brenda.  I  can- 
not go  and  leave  you  in  such  a  fix — alone.*' 

"I  want  you  to  go,  Theo  ;  I  do  really.  It 
would  never  do  for  you  to  miss  this  chance.  You 
are  pledged  to  this  man  (who  sits  comfortably  at 
home),  and  I  would  never  forgive  myself  if  I 
thought  that  you  stayed  here  on  my  account. 
Besides,  you  are  a  sort  of  public  servant  ;  it.  is 
your  duty  to  go." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  catching  at  the  phrase  uneasily, 
'^  it  is  certainly  mv  duty.     It  is  my  duty  ...  to 

She  stood  beside  him  quite  still.  Then  she 
moved  a  step  nearer  to  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  Theo,"  she  pleaded,  "  you  must  go.  To  please 
me,  pack  up  and  go." 

He  smiled  suddenly,  but  did  not  look  up  into 
her  face,  which  was  very  pale,  while  her  lips  re- 
mained red.  There  was  a  slight  quiver  of  her 
chin  whenever  her  mouth  remained  for  a  second 
unclenched.     It  needed  an  effort  on  her  part  to 

frevent  his  hearing  the  chattering  of  her  teeth, 
nvoluntarily  he  shrunk  a  little  away  from  her 
light  touch,  and  glanced  furtively  at  the  white 
fingers  on  his  shoulder. 

Thus  they  remained  for  some  moments  while 
the  yacht  heaved  gently  onward.  The  lamps 
swayed  a  little,  but  beyond  that  there  was  no 
motion  in  the  pretty  cabin.  At  last  Trist  reached 
out  his  hand  and  took  the  envelope  from  which  he 


DIVIDED  RESPONSIBILITY.  9; 

had  torn  one  of  the  telegrams.  He  bent  it  over 
and  smoothed  it  very  carefully,  while  she  watched 
the  movements  of  his  fingers. 

"AVhen  is  there  a  steamer  to  England  ?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  from  Bergen,  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening." 

His  answer  was  laconic  and  concise  as  Brad- 
shaw. 

Brenda  knew  then  that  he  had  expected  war 
all  along,  and  war  was  his  element  :  she  could 
not  forget  that,  despite  the  wild  incongruity  of 
it. 

'^  How  can  you  manage  it  ?  "  she  asked  simply 
and  practically. 

It  would  appear  that  he  had  foreseen  everything, 
provided  for  every  possible  contingency.  While 
she  moved  away  from  him  and  sat  down  near  a 
small  table,  he  answered  her  without  a  moment's 
thought. 

"■  If  we  have  the  funeral  to-morrow  morning,  I 
can  start  immediately  afterward  in  a  small  boat, 
and  row  or  sail  to  Gudvangeu,  reaching  there  early 
next  morning.  Drive  to  Vossevangen,  and  catcli 
the  afternoon  train  down  to  Bergen." 

**  It  sounds  very  simple,  but  it  means  thirty 
hours  without  sleep." 

''  I  can  sleep  all  the  way  across  the  North  Sea. 
Don't  think  of  me,  Brenda  ;  I'm  outside  the  ques- 
tion altogether." 

He  stopped,  with  a  worried  look  upon  his  face, 
but  did  not  raise  his  eyes.  Had  he  done  so  he 
would  inevitably  have  noticed  a  heightened  color 
in  her  cheeks,  although  she  turned  aside  and 
gazed  at  nothing  in  particular. 

*•  What  bothers  me,"  he  continued,  **  is  vou  and 

7 


98  SUSPENSE. 

Mrs.  Wvlie  nnd  tlie  Hermione.  What  will  you 
do?" 

**  I  will  take  tho  Henniono  homo,"  she  said, 
with  gentle  corifideuce.  "  You  can  safely  leave 
Mrs.  Wylie  to  me." 

*'I  know  I  can,  but  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you 
to  Mrs.  Wylie.  It  is  putting  too  much  on  your 
shoulders." 

She  shrugged  the  graceful  members  in  question, 
tmd  gave  a  little,  short  laugh. 

"  They  are  strong,"  she  answered  carelessly. 
*'  Besides,  there  is  no  choice  in  the  matter.  I 
simply  must  be  left  in  charge,  because  there  is  no 
one  else.  It  seems  to  me  tliat  the  matter  in  ques- 
tion is  .  .  ,"  she  glanced  toward  the  closed  door 
of  Trist'e  late  state-room,  where  Admiral  Wylie 
kept  his  silent  watch — "■  is  M'hether  Mrs.  Wylie 
■will  consent  to  Fjaerholm  ornot." 

"'  Can  I  see  her  ?  " 

"No  .  .  .  no,  Tlieo.  I  think  it  is  better 
not.  She  is  so  strange  and  unnatural  that  I  am 
afraid  the  sight  of  you  might  have  some  serious 
effect.  Even  in  her  dreams  she  is  constantly  re- 
calling the  sight  of  you  .  .  .  coming  down  the 
little  path  .  .  .  with  him  in  your  arms.  You 
remember — just  beside  the  big  rock  where  it  was 
too  narrow  for  you  both  to  carry  him." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  voice  that  might  well 
have  been  rendered  purposely  careless.  '*  Yes,  I 
remember." 

"  I  have  not  dared,"  the  girl  continued,  ''to 
say  anytliing  about  .  .  .  about  Fjaerholm.  I 
luive  never  seen  any  one  in  grief  like  this  before, 
Theo,  and  it  frightens  me  a  little." 

lie  had  left  the  table,  forsaking  the  farce  of 
breakfast,  and  was  now  walking  noiselessly  back- 


A  DIVIDED  RESPONSIBILITY,  99 

ward  and  forward.  At  the  sound  of  her  roice, 
timid  and  deprecating,  when  she  spoke  the  last 
words,  he  stopped  short  before  her. 

'*  Then  I  must  see  her/'  he  said — **I  must  see 
her  before  I  go.  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  .  .  . 
of  grief,  Brenda — in  other  people,  I  mean — and 
know  its  symptoms.  Some  people  are  stunned 
for  a  time,  like  a  man  who  has  been  thrown  from 
a  gun-carriage,  but  it  ought  nqt  to  last  very  long, 
not  more  than  twenty-four  hours.  And  then  they 
usually  become  nervously  active.  If  Mrs.  Wj'lie 
is  like  that,  you  must  employ  her  somehow.  Tire 
her  out  if  you  can.  But  we  must  take  it  upon 
ourselves,  now,  to  have  the  admiral  buried  at 
Fjaerholm.  She  is  not  taking  it  as  I  thought  she 
would,  and  the  voyage  home,  or  back  to  Bergen, 
oven,  with  him  on  board  would  send  her  mad. 
When  ho  is  buried  it  will  be  different ;  she  will 
recover  then,  under  your  care." 

'  '■  Yes,"  replied  the  girl.  '"  Yes,  we  must  take  it 
upon  ourselves,  Theo.     I  thought  of  it  before." 

"If  at  any  time,"  he  murmured  in  his  gently 
suggestive  way,  "  the  matter  is  discussed — when 
I  am  away,  I  mean — you  can  say  that  the  whole 
responsibility  rests  with  me." 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  a 
sudden  light  in  her  blue  eyes. 

*'  I  am  not  afraid  of  responsibility,"  she  said 
tersely. 

''  Xo,  I  think  you  are  afraid  of  nothing  !" 

She  received  this  statement  as  it  was  made, 
simply,  half-playfully,  and  quite  without  after- 
thought. 

After  a  pause  he  rose,  collected  his  letters,  and 
went  on  deck,  leaving  her  seated  near  the  small 
table.     She  also  had  letters,  and  there  was  a  packet 


lOO  SUSPENSE. 

of  magazines  and  jouruals  lying  unopened  near  afc 
hand.  But  she  showed  no  desire  to  learn  news 
from  the  outer  world.  All  her  interests  were  cen- 
tered within  four  wooden  walls  just  then,  and  she 
sat  thinking  far  into  the  forenoon.  Over  her  head, 
on  the  lightly-built  deck,  the  regular  tread  of  Theo 
Trist  acted  as  an  accompaniment  to  her  thoughts. 
It  was  so  light,  that  footsteji,  and  yet  so  steady, 
seeming  to  tell  of  a  gentle  force  which  never 
swerved,  never  turned  back,  and  never  halted. 

''  I  wonder,"  she  meditated,  "  if  he  would  have 
gone  at  all  events.  I  wonder  if  I  have  the  slightest 
fnfluence  upon  his  motives  or  his  actions.  Some- 
times it  seems  as  if  any  one  could  lead  him  like  a 
child,  and  then  suddenly  there  comes  a  conviction 
that  no  human  force  can  move  him." 


CHAPTER    X. 

FJAERHOLM. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  fjord  of  the  same  name 
lies  the  small  village  of  Fjaerhohn.  A  white, 
wooden  church  of  conventioinil  architecture  is  the 
most  prominent,  and  nt  the  same  time  the  most 
unsightly,  feature  in  the  landscape.  Around  this 
edifice  are  clustered  a  few  wooden  houses,  mostly 
painted  white  or  yellow  wiili  a  sparing  brush,  be- 
cause paint  is  heavy  freight,  and  can  be  bought 
only  in  Bergen  or  Christiania.  Houses  and  church 
alike  are  roofed  with  red  tiles  of  a  bright  and 
cleanly  hue,  which  will  be  preserved  much  longer 
than  the  memory  of  the  tiler.     There  is  no  smoke 


FJAERHOLM.  tor 

in  Fjaerholm,  and  a  long,  cold  winter  kills  any 
moss-growth,  so  everything  looks  clean  and  new. 

Across  the  fjord,  which  is  white  and  milky  from 
the  glaciers,  is  one  farm,  or  what  is  by  courtesy 
called  a  farm — a  mere  matter  of  ten  acres  or  so 
divided  into  patclies  of  potato,  hay  and  wheat. 
Fjaerholm,  like  most  Xorwegiau  villages,  hamlets, 
and  homesteads,  suggests  a  question.  One  cannot 
help  wondering  why  it  ever  came  there.  The  till- 
able soil  is  of  sufficient  area  to  nourish  a  single 
family,  but  no  more,  and  yet  a  whole  village  man- 
ages to  wrest  a  frugal  sustenance  from  it.  There 
is  a  post-office,  and  a  postmaster  who  wears  the 
inevitable  spectacles  and  brown  linen  jacket  ;  and 
he  again  suggests  a  question.  With  one  mail  a 
week,  in  and  out  on  the  same  da}- — namely,  Fri- 
day— what  employment  can  he  find  during  the 
other  six  ?  Yet  he  is  as  grave  and  busy  as  a 
young  bank  clerk  in  the  presence  of  his  manager. 
He  is  constantly  walking  backward  and  forward 
across  tlie  single  unpaved  street  from  his  home  to 
his  office,  from  his  office  to  his  home,  with  two 
pieces  of  official  paper  held  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,  his  pen  in  his  mouth,  his  elbow  officially 
squared,  and  his  linen  jacket  fluttering,  all  with 
an  air  of  intense  pre-occiipation.  Poor  postmas- 
ter I  It  is  mean  to  fire  off  cheap  sarcastic  fire- 
works from  a  safe  distance.  There  are  others 
among  us  who  wear  a  preoccupied  air  over  noth- 
ing, and  flourish  our  flimsy  official  papers  with 
intense  self-satisfaction. 

Tlieo  Trist  found  him  to  be  the  only  intelligent 
man  in  the  village  (with  the  exception,  perhaps, 
of  an  absorbed  artist  whose  personal  apparel 
spoke  lamentably  clear  language  upon  the  mone- 
tary prospects  of  Scandinavian  art),  and  official 


loi  SUSPEA'SE. 

flipnity  was  tempered  by  a  kindly,  simple  hrarf 
fun  of  sympathy  for  the  wandering  sailor  whose 
last  resting-place  was  to  be  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  ugly  white  church.  The  old  minister,  whose 
bleached  and  wrinkled  face  bore  a  faint  and  in- 
definite resemblance  to  his  own  sacerdotal  ruff, 
simply  obeyed  Trist  and  the  postmaster  in  every 
detail. 

The  arrival  of  the  Hermioue  was  a  matter  of  no 
small  wonder  in  this  mountain  fastness,  but  in  a 
few  minutes  the  story  was  known  tliroughout  the 
village,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  every  in- 
habitant possessing  means  of  locomotion  was  on 
the  small  wooden  pier  to  meet  Trist  and  Captain 
Barrow  when  they  landed.  Xorway  is  a  taciturn 
country,  and  the  matter  was  soon  talked  over  in 
a  mumbling,  half-plaintive  way. 

At  midday  there  was  a  simple  funeral.  Four 
bareheaded  sailors  bore  their  late  chief  from  the 
pier  to  the  scantily  tenanted  clmrchyard.  The 
British  ensign  fluttered  for  the  first  time  in  the 
cold  breeze  that  steals  down  from  the  glacier  into 
the  Fjaerholm  Valley,  and  the  old  white-haired 
minister,  clad  in  his  quaint  Lutheran  robes,  read 
unintelligible  phrases  over  the  coffin.  Then  the 
stony  earth  fell  heavily,  for  it  was  still  damp,  and 
Theo  Trist  turned  in  his  philosophically  calm  way 
and  smothered  a  sigh  of  relief. 

There  was  something  to  be  written  in  a  book  in 
the  vestry  of  the  church,  a  few  homeopathic  fees 
to  be  paid,  an  exchange  of  names  and  addresses 
to  be  effected  with  the  preoccupied  postmaster, 
and  Admiral  Wylie  was  left  to  his  rest  amidst 
the  simple  Northerners.  To-day,  as  on  that  day 
years  ago,  the  little  village  stands  by  the  side  of 
the  silent  milky  fjord  with  its  white  church,  yellow 


FJAEKHOLM.  103 

houses,  and  clean  red  tiles.  The  tide  steals  up  as 
of  yore  to  the  very  wall  of  the  churchyard,  but 
in  God's  garden  there  are  more  seeds  sown  to 
grow  in  peace  and  holiness  till  the  great  spring- 
tide calls  them  to  flower.  At  the  head  of  every 
short  valley  round  the  "FJaerholm  fjord  there  is 
still  the  blue  wonder  of  the  glacier  which  extends 
in  one  vast  field  of  unexplored  snow  and  ice  over 
the  broken  tableland,  irom  its  edge  the  same 
stream  trickles  down  in  white  confusion,  gaining 
strength  and  volume  in  its  progress,  until  it  runs 
past  tnc  church  and  beneath  the  narrow  wooden 
bridge,  a  veritable  river.  So,  even  in  his  sleep, 
the  old  salmon-fisherman  may  hear  perchance 
the  sweet  murmurous  voice  of  running  water, 
the  gurgle  of  the  rapid,  and  the  plash  of  the 
fall. 

The  old  minister  is  dead.  Many  years  ago  he 
joined  the  silent  ones  of  Fjaerholm.  The  post- 
master also  has  been  removed  to  another  sphere, 
where,  we  are  told,  there  are  no  wrinkled  brows, 
no  oflicial  ]iapers,  no  sealing-wax  and  weekly 
mail-bags.  But  many  there  are  who  remember 
and  speak  still  in  a  wondering  way  of  the  beauti- 
ful English  vessel  which  came  and  went  within 
twelve  short  hours — the  only  yacht  whose  anchor 
has  stirred  up  the  mud  of  the  fjord.  And  among 
the  wooden  ci'osses,  amidst  the  unlabeled  mounds, 
there  stands  to-day  a  simple  marble  cross  with 
strange  English  writing  on  it. 

Soon  the  story  will  be  forgotten  ;  and  perhaps 
in  future  years,  not  so  very  far  distant,  after  all, 
some  member  of  the  great  wandering  British 
array,  some  taciturn  mountaineer,  or  rough-clad 
fisherman,  will  ask  in  vain  how  a  seafaring 
countryman  came  to  be  buried  here. 


104  SUSPEATSE. 

There  is  a  picture  in  a  Frenchman's  stndy  in 
Paris — a  small  untidy  apartment  reeking  of 
cigarette-smoke,  littered  with  manuscript  and 
proof-sheet,  for  the  owner  is  a  giant  among 
journalists.  It  is  a  rough  water-color  drawing  of 
a  peculiar  school,  semi-Parisian,  semi-Scandina- 
vian, and  full  of  a  bright,  hard  vigor.  There 
is  a  wonderful  strength,  a  subtle  dramatic  force, 
in  this  rough  picture,  Avhich  draws  one  to  study 
it  more  closely.  The  scene  is  evidently  Scandi- 
navian, but  among  the  figures  there  are  unmis- 
takable Englishmen — notably  one  who,  standing 
bareheaded  in  the  foreground,  seems  to  look  into 
one's  face  Avith  meek,  scrutinizing  eyes. 

"■  What  is  this  picture  ?  Who  is  that  man  ?" 
Again  and  again  the  journalist  has  looked  up 
from  his  table,  and  laid  aside  his  discolored,  odor- 
ous cigarette-end  to  answer  such  questions. 

'*  Ah,"  he  replies  with  quick  gesture,  "  I  know 
not.  But  it  seems  that  it  must  be  a  funeral — the 
funeral  of  some  Englishman  in  Norway.  I  bought 
the  picture  at  an  exhibition  of  Scandinavian  art, 
at  Copenhagen  ;  and  I  bought  it  on  account  of 
the  man  standing  in  the  middle — he  with  the  brow 
of  an  angel  and  the  mouth  of  Napoleon." 

'MVhoishe?" 

*' I  think  it  must  bo  a  man  I  once  knew.  A 
wonderful  fellow.  The  Philosopher,  they  called 
him  in  Plevna." 

The  Hermione  moved  gracefully  away  while  the 
postmaster  stood,  hat  in  hand,  gravely  saluting. 
A  little  further  back  a  lean,  ill-clad  figure  leant 
against  a  post  sketching.  This  was  the  impecu- 
nious artist  who  had  hovered  watchfully  in  the 
background  since  Trist  and  Captain  Barrow  first 


FJAERHOLM.  105 

landed.  There  was  a  fair  breeze,  and  all  that  day 
the  Hermione  crept  down  the  narrow  fjord  and 
into  broader  waters.  Among  the  low,  brown 
mountain-toiis  white  clouds  hung  heavily,  but 
there  was  blue  sky  overhead,  and  the  sun  shone 
gaily  at  intervals.  The  Hermione  was  the  quick- 
est craft  in  those  waters,  so  Trist  determined  to 
stay  on  board  as  long  as  the  breeze  held  good. 
Mrs.  Wylie  never  ajDpoared  on  deck,  and  Brenda 
reported  no  change.  The  cheerful  little  lady 
seemed  to  have  lost  heart  altogether,  but  Brenda 
kept  her  fears  to  herself  as  only  women  can.  At 
lunch  she  attempted  a  little  cheerfulness,  and 
Trist  promptly  assisted  her,  but  cheerfulness  d 
deux,  when  it  is  forced,  cannot  be  long-lived. 
The  solemn  steward  moved  round  them  with  his 
grave  face  set  at  zero,  and  the  meal  was  soon  des- 
patched. It  was  already  known  on  board  that 
the  Hermione  was  bound  for  home,  and  that  Mr. 
Trist  was  going  on  by  steamer — called  away  most 
inopportunely  to  an  eastern  war. 

It  needed  a  cleverer  woman  than  Brenda  Gil- 
holme  to  wear  a  smiling  face  amidst  these  solemn 
surroundings.  The  very  elements  were  grave  and 
foreboding,  for  there  is  no  more  melancholy 
scenery  on  earth  than  a  narrow  Norwegian  fjord. 
It  has  all  the  grim,  patient  silence  of  the  Arctic 
world  without  the  Polar  splendor  of  light  and 
shade  and  color  ;  unrelieved  by  Arctic  life.  Life- 
less, treeless  hills,  which  rise  sheer  from  the  dead 
water  without  snow  or  herbage  ;  a  dull  sea,  often 
glassy,  never  rippling  into  green  and  silver  shades 
like  open  ocean,  and  betraying  no  sign  of  life 
within  its  bosom. 

While  all  goes  well,  the  utter  hopelessnessis  not 
noticed  ;  but  as  soon  as  illness,  or  an  anxiety,  or^ 


yo6  SUSPENSE. 

V'orst  of  all,  dread  death  should  come,  the  great 
:-n!iiude  strikes  one  with  a  chill.  All  human  aid, 
human  science,  human  comfort,  is  so  far  and  so 
obviously  unattainable.  To  this  Brenda  was 
about  to  be  left,  with  feelings  naturally  shaken 
by  the  Admiral's  sudden  and  lonely  deatii,  for  she 
did  not  possess  a  tithe  of  Theo  Trist's  superb 
nerve — a  woman  practically  alone  with  men,  kind 
enough,  and  very  willing,  Init  ofadiiterent  grade, 
thinking  different  thoughts,  and  endowed  witli 
other  feelings.  Added  to  this,  she  was  about  to 
take  upon  her  shoulders  the  sole  responsibility  of 
a  lady  usually  cheery  and  independent,  tkmv  iipa- 
thetic,  helpless  and  incomprehensible. 

All  this  Theo  Trist  must  have  recognized  as  ho 
paced  by  Brenda's  side  when  the  evening  shadows 
crept  down  into  the  deeper  valleys.  The  snn  wns 
hidden  by  a  high  range  of  hills  to  the  northwest, 
and  evervihing  on  the  northern  sliore  of  the  fjord 
was  softly  wrapt  in  a  shimmering  blue  haze.  Tho 
sea  was  very  dark  and  lonesome,  scarce  rippled  by 
the  dying  wind.  Heavy  gray  clouds  were  catch- 
ing on  the  mountain-tops  all  round,  and  seemed 
to  cling  sullenly  to  the  land,  creeping  lower  with 
the  shadows.  It  could  not  be  that  Trist  was  ig- 
norant of  the  girl's  position.  It  was  not  thouglit- 
lessness,  because  whatever  this  man's  faults  mriv 
liave  been,  no  one  could,  or  ever  did,  accuse  him 
of  want  of  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others. 
But  for  some  reason  he  never  uttered  one  word  of 
8ymi)athy  to  Brenda.  Already  some  vague  shadow 
of  war  seemed  to  have  fallen  over  his  softer  man- 
ner. He  had  learnt  to  respect  the  call  of  duty  at 
the  best  school  ;  in  this  respect  lie  was  a  true 
soldier,  with  all  a  soldier's  blind,  uncomplaining 
obedience  to  orders. 


FJAERHOLM.  107 

Years  afterward,  when  Brenda  recalled  the 
memory  of  that  evening  (and  every  detail  of  it 
was  as  clear  as  dny),  there  came  to  her  an  indefi- 
nite understanding.  In  her  own  heart  she  had 
knowledge  then  of  his  motive,  and  she  wondered 
a  little  over  it.  Few  men,  reflected  she,  vvould 
have  divined  that  sympathy  was  the  only  thing 
she  conld  not  have  borne  just  then.  That  it  was 
not  thoughtlessness  she  knew  at  the  time, 
although  she  moved  and  lived  and  acted  in  a 
mechanical,  unthinking  way,  without  pausing  to 
seek  motives  or  assign  reasons.  There  was  suffi- 
cient evidence  of  Trist's  forethought  at  every  turn, 
and  silent  testimony  to  his  powers  of  organization. 
Captain  Barrow  was  a  good  sailor  and  an  honest 
man — an  ideal  sailing-master  for  Admiral  Wylie's 
yacht — but  beyond  that  the  old  man's  capabilities 
were  limited.  The  clearest  brain  and  brightest 
male  intellect  on  board  lived  behind  the  steward's 
grave  eyes,  and  to  these  two  men  Trist  gave,  in 
his  gentle  way,  such  instructions  as  he  thought 
they  needed. 

During  the  voyage  home  Brenda  was,  so  to 
speak,  always  running  against  Theo  Trist.  In  her 
intercourse  with  Captain  Barrow  or  the  steward, 
she  invariably  found  herself  in  some  degree  fore- 
stalled by  the  man  who  was  already  many  miles 
away.  *'  Yes,  miss,  i\Ir.  Trist  said  we  was  to  do 
that  if  .  .  ."etc.,  etc.,  or,  "Aye,  itiss  Brenda, 
Mr.  Trist  thought  the  same."  Such  remarks  were 
the  common  reception  offered  to  her  most  brilliant 
strokes  of  management,  and,  strange  to  say,  she 
did  not  appear  to  resent  this  preconceived  inter- 
ference. This  was  the  first  vessel  she  had  com- 
manded, and  there  was  a  certain  sense  of  comfort 
in  meeting,  as  it  were,  with  this  opinion  which 


io8  SUSPENSE. 

coincided  with  her  own.  In  a  sense  the  responsi- 
bility was  still  shared,  and  if  tlio  result  seemed  to 
insinuate  that  another  course  might  in  some  cases 
have  been  wiser,  there  v/as  always  the  satisfaction 
of  looking  back  and  layiiig  a  share  of  the  blaine 
upon  that  silent  acquiescence.  This  was  something 
of  the  same  spirit  (an  intensely  human  one  it  is) 
that  prompts  the  cook  to  refer  triumphantly  to 
the  work  of  Mrs.  Beeton  when  the  pudding  turns 
out  a  failure. 

But  Trist  did  not  consider  it  necessary  to  tell 
her  of  his  arrangements  made  for  her  future 
benefit.  Such  reference  would  naturally  have 
led  to  the  question  of  his  approacliing  departure 
for  the  seat  of  war,  and  this  question  was  uutaste- 
ful  to  him  just  then. 

"And  now,  Brenda,"  he  said  about  eleven 
o'clock  that  evening,  when  the  Ilermione  was 
creeping  onward  between  the  dismal  ranges  of 
bare  hill  and  rock  that  border  the  Sognfjord — 
"  and  now,  Brenda,  go  to  bed.  You  have  had  a 
hard  time  of  it  since  Wednesday.  "We  cannot 
reach  Gudvangen  before  two  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning,  and  it  is  mere  folly  for  you  to  stay  up 
any  longer.  Say  .  .  .  good-by  .  .  .  and  go  to 
bed  ! " 

In  the  gray  twilight  her  sweet  face  changed 
suddenly.  Her  checks  lost  all  color,  and  a  pecu- 
liar ashen-gray  hue  fell  upon  her  motionless  fea- 
tures, while  into  her  eyes  there  came  such  a  look 
of  horror  that  Trist,  seeing  it,  was  struck  dumb. 
In  a  peculiar  mechanical  way  they  continued  to 
walk  side  by  side.  She  seemed  to  experience 
some  difficulty  in  breathing,  for  the  muscles  of 
her  round  white  throat  moved  hurriedly  .at  short 
intervals,      He  stared  straight  in  front  of  him 


FJAERHOLM.  109 

■with  a  dnll,  vacant  expression  in  his  eyes,  while 
his  stern  roouth  was  twisted  slightly  to  one 
side. 

At  last,  inst  as  they  were  turning  amidships  to 
walk  aft,  she  spoke  without  raising  her  eyes,  and 
her  articulation  was  slightly  muifled. 

*'  I  would  rather  stay  on  deck,  but  .  .  .  do  yon 
ivant  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  No — stay." 

After  a  short  silence  she  spoke  again,  in  quite  a 
different  tone. 

"  1  suppose,"  she  said,  '■'  that  you  can  form  no 
idea  yet  of  what  you  are  going  to — how  long  it 
will  lust,  and  who  will  be  victorious." 

**  Turkey,"  he  replied  guardedl}',  *'  will  prob- 
ably win.  I  do  not  imagine  that  there  will  be 
much  for  me  to  do.  It  all  depends  upon  how 
soon  Turkey  gets  to  work.  What  is  wanting  in 
strategical  skill  will  be  made  up  in  bloodthirsti- 
ness,  I  should  imagine," 

She  shuddered,  but  made  no  reply. 

**  I  may  be  back  in  a  fortnight,"  he  added 
coolly,  **and  if  Russia  gets  dragged  into  it,  I  may 
not  get  home  for  a  year  or  two. 

"  At  all  events,  it  will  be  a  horrible  war." 

''Probably." 

She  laughed  in  a  short,  sarcastic  way. 

"You  have  already  assumed  tlie  first  coat  of 
your  mental  and  moral  war  paint." 

*'It  is  my  trade,  Brcnda." 

**  Then  do  not  let  us  talk  shop,"  she  said 
sharply.  At  times  this  learned  little  person  was 
intensely  womanly.  As  soon  as  the  words  were 
spoken  she  seemed  to  repent  of  them,  for  she 
added  in  a  softer  tone,  "  Though  J  am  afraid  I 
began  it," 


no  SUSPENSE. 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  meek,  qnestioning 
eyes. 

"  Ye6,"  he  said  softly  ;  "  yon  began  it." 

*'  I  had  a  reaBou  for  doing  bo." 

*'  I  know  you  had." 

This  remark  made  her  laugh  in  a  slightly  em- 
barrassed way. 

"  I  wanted/'  she  then  explained,  "  to  request 
yon  to  take  care  of  yourself — Theo." 

"  I  always  do  that."  he  answered  with  some 
gravity  ;  "I  am  not  the  sort  of  person  to  expose 
myself  to  unnecessary  danger." 

**  lam  not  quite  sure  of  that,"  she  said  in  her 
searching  way.  "  But,  still,  I  should  like  to  be 
able  to  tell  Mrs.  Wylie — later — that  you  promised 
to  be  careful.  You  see,  her  nerves  will  perhaps 
bo  a  little  shaken  ;  she  may  be  anxious.  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  replied.  ''It  would  never 
do  for  any  one  to  be  anxious  about  me.  It  is  a 
thing  I  have  always  tried  to  avoid,  and  Mrs.  Wylie 
Bays  that  she  never  troubles  about  me.  It  would 
spoil  my  nerve,  ...  if  I  thought  that  there  was 
somebody  at   home    watching    and    waiting  for 


news." 


She  laughed  suddenly  in  an  almost  defiant  way, 
and  the  sound  of  her  laughter  was  discordant 
in  the  silence  only  broken  by  a  whispering 
breeze. 

"  And  you  would  be  nothing  without  nerve  ?  " 

*'  No,"  he  answered  stupidly  ;  "  I  should  bo 
nothing  without  nerve." 

'•  Although  you  never  expose  yourself  to  un- 
necessary danger  ?  .   .   ." 

She  turned  suddenly  and  left  him.  There  was 
a  boat  slung  high  up  on  the  davitt;,  and,  passing 
round  it,  she  went  and  stood  beside  the  rail  with 


FJAERHOLM.  m 

her  hands  resting  on  it.     The  boat  hid  her  from 
the  eyes  of  any  one  on  deck. 

Trist  walked  aft.  and  stood  for  a  moment  be- 
siko  the  steersman  in  an  indifferent  attitude,  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  aloft. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  wind  is  dropping,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir — it's  s]a<^kening  a  bit,"  replied  the 
man. 

Then  Trist  slowly  followed  Brenda. 

For  a  moment  or  two  lie  stood  behind  her  and 
there  seemed  to  be  a  dull  tension  in  the  very  at- 
mosphere, Tlien  at  last  he  spoke,  in  his  soft,  emo- 
tionless way. 

"  The  wind  is  dropping,"  he  said  ;  ^'  and  we 
cannot  expect  it  to  rise  again  before  the  sun  comes 
up.  Let  ns  bo  practical  and  have  some  rest.  Go 
to  your  state-room  and  try  to  sleep.  I  will  lie 
down  for  a  eoui:)le  of  hours  in  the  saloon." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then  she  turned 
and  passed  round  the  boat  in  the  other  direction, 
80  that  he  did  not  see  her  face.  Moving  toward 
the  companion,  she  answered  him  quietly  : 

''  Yes— it  will  bo  better." 

No  other  word  passed  between  them.  She  went 
below,  and  presently  Trist  followed  her.  He  lay 
down  on  the  cabin  sofa,  but  did  not  sleep.  H^ 
took  up  a  novel  instead,  and  read  assiduously. 


lu  sl/s/'^:AsJi. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  COMMERCIAL  TRANSACTION. 

By  three  o'  clock  in  the  morning  Theo  Trist 
was  on  deck  again.  The  sun  was  ah-eady  high  up 
in  the  heavens  ;  the  morning  air  was  fresh  and 
invigorating. 

Captain  Barrow  now  did  a  strange  thing.  He 
took  all  sail  off  the  Hermione  atid  allowed  her  to 
drift  on  the  rising  tide  toward  Gudvangen.  There 
was  noticeahle  about  the  movements  of  the  men 
a  singular  desire  to  avoid  any  noise  whatsoever. 
Trist  and  the  Captain  moved  about  among  tliem, 
here  and  there,  helping  noiselessly.  The  Captain 
gave  his  orders  in  a  lowered  voice.  The  carpenter 
was  at  his  post  forward  by  the  cathead,  but  he 
awaited  the  order  to  let  go  the  anchor  in  vain. 
All  this  was  the  result  of  instructions  imparted  by 
Trist  to  Captain  Barrow. 

"  Put  me  ashore,"  he  had  said,  "before  you  let 
go  the  anchor.  Tlie  ladies  must  not  be  awakened 
on  any  account.  Let  the  men  make  as  little  noise 
as  they  can  in  lowering  the  boat  and  taking  in 
sail." 

To  a  yacht's  crew  such  instructions  were  easy 
of  comprehension.  These  are  of  different  con- 
struction to  the  hardy  mariners  who  man  our 
passenger  steamers.  The  latter  gentry  cannot 
deign  to  lay  a  coil  of  rope  or  the  brass  nozzle  of  a 
hose-pipe  on  the  deck  at  five  a.  m.  All  such 
things  are  cast  violently  and  dragged  backward  and 
forward  over  the  heads  of  the  sleeping  passengers  in 


A  COMMERCIAL   TRANSACTION.  I13 

a  frank,  sailor-like  way.  Again,  such  members  of 
the  crew  as  possess  a  taste  for  mechanical  engin- 
eering are  at  perfect  liberty  to  take  the  cover  off 
the  donkey-engine  and  indulge  in  a  few  experimen- 
tal and  spasmodic  revolutions  during  the  smaller 
hours  of  the  morning.  These  sounds  impart  a 
hearty  and  nautical  feeling  to  the  sleepers  below 
decks,  and  serve  to  i-emind  them  that  they  are 
nationally  of  a  seafaring  turn.  Being  of  a  com- 
mercial spirit,  I  shall  some  day  start  a  line  of  pas- 
senger steamers,  carrying  crews  who  do  not  wear 
sea-boots  in  tropical  and  dry  latitudes,  who  can 
stoop  to  lay  things  down  o'u  deck,  and  do  not 
work  _  violently  from  five  to  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  so  that  the  rest  of  the  day  may  be  spent 
in  graceful  leisure. 

Captain  Barrow  had  directed  his  mental  re- 
searches more  toward  the  vagaries  of  fickle  ocean 
and  wayward  weather  than  to  the  question  of 
human  motives.  Through  a  long  and  somewhat 
monotonous  life  the  old  mariner  hud  not  hitherto 
found  the  necessity  of  studying  his  fellow-men 
very  closely.  Able-bodied  seamen  are  a  class  of 
beings  who  vary  little  in  mental  accomplishment 
or  bias.  Their  bodies  must  be  able  ;  their  minds 
are  of  secondary  im])ortance.  Nevertheless,  it 
occurred  to  him  that  Theo  Trist  was  singularly 
anxious  to  get  ashore  without  disturbing  the 
ladies. 

The  boat  was  lowered  noiselessly,  and  into  it  were 
thrown  the  young  fellow's  portmanteau,  creel  and 
rods.  Then  Trist  shook  hands  with  the  crew,  the 
steward,  and  finally  with  Captain  Barrow  himself. 
This  ceremony  being  performed  with  due  solem-* 
nity,  he  threw  his  leg  over  the  rail  and  prepared  to 
jump  into  the  boat,  which  was  already  manned. 


.S 


114  SUSPENSE. 

At  tliis  moment  Brouda  appeared  on  deck.  She 
was  still  (Irctised  in  black,  which  somber  attire 
Buitod  her  dainty  style  of  face  and  form  to  per- 
fection. Dii  r<^sto,  she  looked  .n?  brijrhtand  fresh 
as  Aurora 

Captain  Barrow  glanced  beneath  his  shaggy 
eyebrows  at  Trist,  and  saw  on  his  face — nothing  ; 
absolutely  nothing.  The  man  was  simply  impene- 
trable. 

Brenda  came  toward  them  with  a  smilo.  She 
leant  over  the  rail,  for  Trist  was  now  in  the  boat, 
and  held  out  her  small  hand  steadily. 

''Good-by,  Theo." 

"  Good-by  .   .   .    Brenda.'' 

And  with  his  own  linnds  he  shoved  off. 

So  the  Hermione  xigwv  dropped  anchor  at  Gud- 
vaugen.  Before  the  bout  rtsached  the  pier  there 
was  a  man  waiting  for  her.  In  Norway,  persons 
connected  in  any  way  with  the  hire  of  horses  or 
carioles  do  not  appear  to  sleep  at  all.  Even  in  this 
peaceful  land  the  spirit  of  competition  disturbs 
men's  rest. 

Brenda,  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  Hermione, 
saw  Trist  shake  hands  with  the  boat's  crew  and 
climb  on  to  the  wooden  pier.  Then  he  turned, 
and  evidently  directed  the  men  to  return  to  the 
yacht.  The  wind  was  fair,  so  Captain  Barrow  sot 
sail  as  soon  as  the  boat  came  alongside  ;  and  be- 
fore the  sails  were  fairly  fdled,  Brenda  saw  Trist 
mount  his  cariolo  and  drive  away  at  a  smart  trot 
into  the  narrow,  darksome  gorge  of  the  Nerodid. 
To  her  ears  came  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  upon 
the  hard  road,  and  she  turned  away  Avith  dull  an- 
guish in  her  eyes. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  Theo  Trist  was 
seated  in  a  train  that  glided  smoothly  into  King's 


A  COMMERCIAL   TRANSACTION. 


"S 


Cross  Station.  It  was  five  o'clock,  and  in  three 
hours  the  war-correspondeut  intended  to  leaTG 
London  again.  As  time  goes  and  new  tilings 
grow  up  around  us,  our  constitutions  become 
more  adaptable.  The  human  frame  endures  to- 
day fatigues  and  hardships  of  a  description  nn- 
dreamt  of  three  hundred  years  ago.  I  believe 
that  it  would  have  been  liard  to  find  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Bess  a  man  ready  to  undertjikc  an  un- 
broken journey  by  eariole,  steamer,  train,  steamer, 
train,  and  train  again  from  a  Norwegian  station  to 
the  pretty  little  town  of  Belgrade  on  the  Danube. 
To  Theo  Trist  this  undertaking  was  of  no  great 
matter,  and  there  are  plenty  of  men  around  who 
would  smile  at  the  hardship. 

Whatever  speed  may  be  attained  by  our  fastest 
express  the  human  brain  can  outvie.     During  the 
first  hour  or  so  our  thoughts  lag  behind,  we  are 
etill  living   the  life  that  is  left  there,  thinking  of 
the  people  who  dwell  there,  feeling  the  emotions 
experienced  there.     But  presently  our  thoughts 
come  racing  along  and  overtake  the  material  body. 
An   interest   is   taken    in   passing   stations ;    the 
scenery  acquires  beauty,  and  for  a  time  mind  and 
body  travel  together.     After  another  space  our 
thoughts  start  away  again,  in  front  this  time,  and 
the  coming  alteration  in  daily  routine  becomes  a 
reality.     We  anticipate   the   change   that   is  ap- 
proaching, and  thus  the  shock  of  it  is  broken. 
Any  one  who   has  made  a  long  and  rapid  journey 
will  understand  me,  and  those  who  have  left  be- 
hind them  something  dear,  some  bright  period 
of  their  existence,  will,  with  me,  bless  this  wise 
provision. 

To  Theo  Trist  nothing  seemed   more  natural 
than  to  find  himself  amidst  an  excited  crowd  of 


Il6  SUSPENSE. 

porters  on  the  platform.  To  be  hustled  on  all 
Bides  by  human  forms,  to  have  to  push  his  way 
through  an  overcrowded  humanity,  brought  to 
his  mind  no  thought  of  contrast.  Three  days 
before  he  had  lived  in  a  world  almost  devoid  of 
life.  Here  he  forced  his  way  through  life  in  a 
world  too  small  for  it. 

All  around  him  greetings  were  being  exchanged 
— hands  pressed  hands,  and  lips  touched  lips.  In 
and  out,  the  porters  forced  their  hurried  passage. 
Cabmen  shouted,  and  porters  called.  Every  one 
was  smiling  at  or  abusing  some  one  else.  Only 
Trist  was  alone.  No  one  sought  his  face  amidst 
the  new  ones  on  the  platform — no  one  smiled  at 
him.  Here,  as  at  the  edge  of  the  Norwegian 
river,  he  was  alone,  in  a  studied,  cultivated 
solitude.  In  three  hours  he  would  leave  Charing 
Cross,  still  alone,  still  unheeded.  Amidst  this 
noise  and  confusion  he  sought  his  light  baggage, 
and  his  was  the  first  cab  to  leave  the  station. 

Through  the  dusty  streets  he  drove,  looking 
calmly  on  the  well-known  sights,  listening  vaguely 
to  the  well-known  sounds  and  cries.  His  life  had 
been  a  kaleidoscope,  and  in  all  places,  all  situa- 
tions, and  all  circumstances,  he  unconsciously 
made  a  place  for  himself. 

In  late  July  London  is  supposed  to  be  empty, 
but  as  Trist  drove  through  the  narrow  thorough- 
fares down  toward  Oxford  Street,  the  pavement 
was  crowded,  Oxford  Street  was  ^ay,  dusty, 
noisy.  Seven  Dials,  in  those  days,  innocent  of 
model  lodging  houses,  reeked  of  fever.  Through 
all  these  the  war-correspondent  drove  indifferently; 
but  when  the  cab  rattled  down  Wellington  Street 
he  sat  forward.  In  the  Strand  he  was  at  home, 
recognized  of  many,  recognizing  some.     The  cal^ 


A  COMMERCIAL   TRANSACTION.  117 

drew  lip  before  a  large  stone  honse,  labeled  by  a 
single  diminutive  brass-plate  on  the  door — and 
waited,  A  minute  later  Trist  entered  a  small 
room  at  the  back  of  the  building.  A  gray-haired 
man  of  square  build  with  an  enormous  head  rose 
to  greet  him. 

"  At  last  !  "  said  this  man.  "  If  you  remember, 
Trist,  I  did  not  want  you  to  go  so  far  away  while 
this  Eastern  Question  was  unsettled.'' 

*'  I  remember  perfectly,"  said  Trist  almost  in- 
audibly,  as  he  laid  aside  his  hat  and  looked  up 
tovvard  a  clock  suspended  on  the  wall,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  knowing  his  surroundings  well. 

"  And  still  you  went — you  ruffian  ! "  said  the 
other,  courteously  indicating  a  chair  and  reseat- 
ing himself. 

Trist  smiled  sweetly  and  said  nothing. 

"I  suppose,"  continued  the  large-headed  man 

i'ovially,  "  that  there  was  a  distinct  and  irresisti- 
tle  attraction.  ' 

"There  was!''  said  Trist,  with  impenetrable 
gravity. 

"  And  how  did  you  leave  that  jolly  old  boy,  the 
Admiral  ?" 

"  Dead  !  " 

"  Ah  !     Dead  ?  " 

The  editor  leant  forward  and  pressed  a  small 
white  button  at  the  side  of  his  desk.  Simultane- 
ously the  door  opened,  and  a  man  in  livery  stood 
silently  waiting. 

**  Send  Mr.  Deacon  ! " 

"  Yessir." 

**  Dead,  is  he  ?  "  continued  the  editor,  in  a  dif- 
ferent tone.  *'  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that.  It  must 
have  been  sudden.     Just  give  me  a  few  details." 

While  speaking  he  had  taken    a  pencil    and 


ll8  SUSPENSE. 

paper.  Trist  told  him  in  a  few  words  what  bad 
taken  place  in  the  Ileimdalf  jord,  and  as  he  Bpoke 
the  editor  wrote.  A  minute  later  Mr.  Deacon, 
a  small  man,  who  looked  incapable  of  taking  the 
initiative  in  anything  whatsoever,  appeared. 

**  Sudden  death  of  Admiral  Wylie,"  said  the 
editor  in  a  monotone,  as  he  held  out  the  paper 
toward  Mr.  Deacon,  without  looking,  however, 
in  his  direction.  **  Short  paragraph — look  up  de- 
tails of  career." 

"  !N"othin^  sensational  and  nothing  very  per- 
sonal," put  m  Trist  with  gentle  severity. 

"  No,"  added  his  companion,  "  nothing  of  that 
sort.  Admiral  Wylie  was  a  personal  friend  of  my 
own. " 

Mr.  Deacon  vanished,  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  with  scrupulous  noiselessness. 

"  When  can  you  go  ?  "  asked  the  editor. 

"Eight-twenty  from  Charing  Cross,"  M-as  the 
reply,  given  in  Prist's  most  soothing  way.  He 
leant  biick  in  his  deep  chair,  and  passed  his  hand 
round  his  clean-shaven  chin  in  a  thoughtful, 
almost  indolent,  manner.  Then  he  waited  for 
his  companion  to  continue  the  conversation. 

"  It  was  rather  a  risky  thing  waiting  for  you  ; 
but  I  heard  from  Lloyd's  tliis  morning  that  your 
boat  arrived  at  Hull  in  time  for  you  to  be  here  by 
five-thirty.  If  that  boat  had  been  late,  my  boy, 
I  should  have  sent  another  man." 

Again  Trist  smiled. 

"  I  very  nearly  did  not  come  at  all." 

This  remark  appeared  to  have  rather  a  peculiar 
effect  upon  the  editor.  He  received  it  with  un- 
sympathetic gravity,  and,  resting  his  heavy  arms 
upon  his  desk,  he  leant  forward.  While  playing 
with  a  pencil  in  an  easy,  thoughtful  way,  he  fixed 


^  COMMERCIAL    TRANSLATION.  119 

his  eyes  upon  Trist's  face  with  kindly  scnttiiiy. 
Gray  eyes  they  were,  of  a  shade  merging  on  green, 
with  at  times  a  suggestion  of  brown.  Such  eyes 
have  a  singular  power  of  expressing  kinduest*  of 
heart,  in  which  they  differ  greatly  from  the  gray 
of  a  blue  shade,  such  as  Trist's,  which  have  gentle- 
ness but  no  loving-kind ]io?8.  It  is  usual  to  hold 
in  abhorrence  all  shades  of  green  in  respect  to 
human  orbs,  but  this  is  mere  prejudice.  There 
is  no  sucli  tiling — despite  Thackeray — as  a  grceu 
eye  ;  and  the  noblest  character,  the  truest  gentle- 
man and  kindest-hearted  being  who  has  crossed 
the  present  writer's  path  possesses  eyes  of  a  gray 
shade  slightly  tinged  with  green.  Again,  there 
is  another  person  I  know.  She  .  .  .  well — she  is 
herself  ;  and  her  eyes  are  of  a  deep  gray,  which 
assume  at  times  a  distinctly  green  hue. 

Before  speaking  the  editor  shook  his  massive 
head  incredulously. 

"  My  impression  of  you,  Trist,  is  that  you  are 
a  man  who  never  '  very  nearly '  does  anything. 
While  actually  reading  my  telegram  you  made  up 
your  mind  whether  you  were  going  or  not,  and 
after  that  no  power  on  earth  would  have  altered 
your  decision.  Of  course,  it  sometimes  pays 
{os:pecially  with  ladio?)  to  appear  vacillating,  and 
desirous  of  placing  the  deciding  vote  in  some  one 
else's  hands.  Xo  doubt  you  practise  this  amiable 
fnuid  at  times.  I  am  sorry,  but  I  don't  believe 
that  you  '  very  nearly  '  did  not  come,  seeing  that 
yon  are  here." 

Trist  laughed  without  denying  this  insinuation. 

"  .\nd  now,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  here,  perhaps 
it  would  be  wiser  to  get  to  business,  and  leave  mv 
personal  failings  for  dipcussion  behind  my  back 
when  I  am  gone." 


I20  SUSPENSE. 

**  Yes,"  answered  the  other  briskly,  "let  us  get 
to  business.  You  must  leave  in  two  hours.  Now 
about  terms.  Are  they  to  be  the  same  as  for  the 
Franco-Prussian  ?  " 

''  No  !  "  answered  Trist. 

''Ah  !" 

"  Your  terms  wore  generous  for  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War,"  replied  the  correspondent,  ''  but 
now  they  would  be  miserly." 

Tiie  editor  raised  his  august  eyebrows  and  waited 
in  quizzical  silence.     Ho  appeared  to  be  amused. 

"  I  was  a  young  man  then,  and  a  beginner. 
You  did  me  a  great  kindness,  and  I  am  not  going 
to  repay  it  by  such  a  mean  ruse  as  working  below 
the  market  price.  I  am  woith  more  now,  and  I 
expect  more.  It  is  only  natural  that  my  health 
will  give  in  some  day,  or  my  reputation  may  die, 
in  either  of  which  cases  I  shall  have  little  to  live 
upon.  Daring  this  war  and  the  disturbances  of 
some  description  which  will  undoubtedly  follow, 
I  mean  to  make  money." 

The  great  man  laughed  aloud. 

"  Capital  I  "  he  exclaimed — "  capital  I  What  a 
licad  for  business  !  My  dear  Trist,  you  are  worth 
four  times  as  much  money  as  we  gave  you  in  '70, 
and  I  am  authorized  to  offer  you  that  sum." 

"I  think  that  is  too  much." 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  merely  a  businesslike  specu- 
lation. You  risk  your  life,  and  we  pay  you. 
Your  life  goes  up  in  market-value  ;  we  pay  you 
more.     Do  you  accept  ?  " 

"Yes." 

'*  That  is  right.  I  have  the  agreement  ready 
in  my  desk  for  you  to  sign.  Personally  speaking, 
I  think  they  might  have  offered  you  more,  but 
you  have  the  publishers  clamoring  for  a  book,  and 


A  COMMERCIAL   TRANSLATION;  121 

I  suppose  you  will  represent  Le  Pays  as  well  as 
ourselves." 

"  Yes  ;  I  telegraphed  to  them  from  Hull.  But 
I  am  quite  content  ;  in  fact,  it  is  more  than  I  ex- 
pected.    I  will  make  a  good  thing  out  of  it." 

"  We  shall,"  observed  the  editor,  with  a  keen 
smile,  "  be  having  you  on  the  turf  when  you  come 
back,  or  launching  into  .    .   .   mati'imony." 

"  Both  amusements,"  suggested  Trist  coolly, 
'*  being  so  eminently  calcuhited  to  forward  the 
career  of  a  special  war-correspondent." 

The  editor  was  busy  collecting  various  papers 
that  lay  in  apparent  disorder  on  his  desk — tele- 
grams, foreign  and  English  ;  "flimsies"  from  the 
news  agencies  and  Lloyd's  ;  printed  matter  and 
manuscript. 

"No,  Trist,"  he  said,  without  looking  up; 
"  we  cannot  have  you  marrying  yet.  The  war- 
like public  cannot  do  without  you,  my  boy." 

"It  is  wonderful,"  murmured  Ti-ist  ambigu- 
ously, "  what  we  can  do  without  when  we  try.  I 
am  not,  however,  going  to  do  without  something 
to  eat.  I  will  go  along  to  the  club  and  dine  now. 
You  will  be  here  when  I  come  back  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  here  until  two  in  the  morning,"  re- 
turned the  journalist. 


12*  Sl/S/'EATSE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HAD    XEWS. 

If  Theo  Trist  had  hoped  to  pass  through  Loudon 
without  meeting  any  one  except  the  editor  of  the 
jni,<:^hty  journal,  from  whoso  cotter  lie  M-as  soon 
to  draw  the  income  of  a  Continental  })rincc,  ho 
was  disappointed.  It  would  seem,  however,  that 
he  was  upon  this  })oint,  as  on  many,  broadly  in- 
different. He  went  to  a  club,  where  he  v:m  almost 
certain  of  meeting  some  of  his  friends — a  club  of 
which  the  members  never  leave  town  because  tho 
calendar  bids  them  do  so  ;  never  quite  lay  aside 
their  labor  ;  and  appear  to  sleep  when  others  are 
av/ake,  working  while  others  sleep. 

Ho  went  there  because  it  was  conveniently  near 
at  hand,  and  he  was  sure  of  having  rapid  atten- 
tion given  to  his  desires.  As  ho  entered  the 
dining-room  a  young  man  rose  fi'oni  quo  of  tho 
email  square  tables  wit1i  dramatic  surprise. 

"  Theodore  Trist,  by  all  that's  sacred  ! "  ex- 
claimed this  youth.  Ho  was  of  medium  height 
with  a  fair  mustache,  such  as  lady  novelists  de- 
light to  write  about.  This  manly  adornment  was 
the  prominent  thing  about  him.  But  for  it,  his 
face  was  that  of  a  fair  and  somewhat  weak-minded 
girl.  It  curled  away  from  either  side  of  his  full 
red  lips  (usually  moist),  with  a  most  becoming 
languor.  Its  golden  hue  completed  perfectly  tho 
harmony  of  his  delicately  tinted  pink  and  white 
face.     A  shade  lighter  than  his  hair,  it  was  itself 


BAD  NEWS,  11^ 

of  delicate  texture,  and  the  bewitching  curl  was 
in  need  of  constant  attention  on  the  part  of  a 
long  white  finger  and  thumb.  The  top  joint  of 
the  finger  bent  backward  with  a  greater  supple- 
ness than  a  manly  person  would  perhaps  admire. 
There  waa  always  an  abundance  of  cuff  and  deep 
turn-down  collar,  of  which  the  points  overlapped 
the  flap  of  a  wide-cut  waistcoat.  In  the  matter 
of  a  necktie,  a  soft  silken  material  of  faded  hue 
rivaled  the  golden  mustache  in  obtruding  itself 
before  the  public  gaze.  Dark-blue  eyes  devoid 
of  depth,  and  a  slightly  aquiline  nose,  complete 
th3  picture.  This  man  was  no  ordinary  being. 
Had  he  been  dressed  like  an  ordinary  being — 
like,  let  us  say,  a  tea-broker — men  and  women 
would  still  have  looked  at  him  twice.  Kensing- 
ton lion-hunters  would  still  have  kept  him  in 
touch,  so  to  speak,  on  the  chance  of  his  develop- 
ing from  puppyhood  into  cubhood,  and  so  on  to 
the  maturity  of  a  London  lion.  But  he  made 
the  most  of  such  personal  peculiarities  as  Provi- 
dence had  thought  fit  to  assign  to  him.  His  tailor 
thought  him  slightly  eccentric.  "  Bit  orf  'is 
chump,"  that  sartorial  artist  was  wont  to  observe 
in  his  terse,  clipping  way  ;  and  he  charged  some- 
thing extra  for  padded  shoulders  ;  and  coutiuu- 
Htions,  baggy  from  waist  to  ankle.  Sundry  small 
Hiiignlaritios  of  dress  purchase  a  cheap  notorietv, 
and  to  these  the  wise  tailor  gave  his  full  consent 
with  an  eye  to  advertisement.  It  is  an  easy- 
matter  to  trim  with  silk  braid  a  coat  of  materiMl 
usually  worn  without  trimming,  and  the  effect  is 
most  satisfactory  to  a  man  desirous  of  beina^  looked 
at  in  public  places.  Again,  the  additional  cost  of 
broad  braid  down  the  outer  seam  of  one's  dress- 
unmentionables  is  trifling,  while  the  possession  of 


124  SUSPENSE. 

it  **  stamps  a  man,  don't  cher  know.*'     Personally 
I  do  not  know  how  it  stamps  a  man,  but   on  good 
autliorit}'  I  have  it.     A  peculiar    cut    of    collar  is 
obtainable   for  the  mere    trouble   of .  asking   and 
running  up  a  bill.     But  chiefest  of  all  is  a  name. 
In  such  a  thing  there  is  to-day  much  more  than 
in   Shakespeare's  time,  and  in   this   one  most  ag- 
gravating point  the  young  man  who  rose  to  greet 
Theodore   Trist  as  he   entered  tlie    club  dining- 
room  failed  most  ignominiously.     His  name  was 
William  Hicks.     In  order  to   battle  successfully 
against  such  a  heavy  handicap,  the  young  man  was 
forced,  like  a  good  general,  to  spare  no  expense  in 
his  outfit.     This  most   commonplace  association 
of  two  good  English  names  cost  their  possessor  as 
much  per  annum  as  would  eiiable  a  thrifty  maiden 
lady  (or  four  German  clerks)  to  live  comfortably. 
He  would  have  given  much  to  be  labeled    by 
such   a   nomenclature  as    "Theodore  Trist" — a 
poetic   assimilation  of   letters  quite  unnecessary 
for  the  war-corres2)ondent,  and  even  wasted  upon 
him.     His  work  would  have  been  equally  popular 
if  signed  William   Hicks,  Avhereas  the  artist,  who 
was  some  day  going  to  surprise  the  old  world  and 
make  the  spirits  of   its  ancient  masters  shake  in 
their  ethereal  shoes,  was  dragged    down  and  held 
back  by  the  drysalting  name  of  Hicks,  for  certain 
rensons,  to  which  even  the   unmercenary  soul  of 
William  was  forced  to  bow,  there  was   no  hope  of 
ever  changing    it    for    something    more    poetic. 
Certain   it  was  (and  perhaps  the  artist  knew  it) 
that  there  were  many  houses  to  which  Theodore 
Trist  had  an  ever-welcome  entry,  while  he — Will- 
iam Ilicks — was  excluded.       It  could   only  be  the 
name  tliat  drew  this  line,  and,   indeed,   it  was  in 
many  cases  nothing  else  ;  for  the  name  of  Trist 


BAD  NEWS.  1 2$ 

is  rare,  and  in  a  certain  county,  far  away  from 
town,  very  powerful,  whereas  the  milkman  who 
supplies  me  with  an  opaque  fluid  of  more  or  less 
nourishing  qualities  is  called  Hicks,  and  from  the 
number  of  little  Hickses  who  require  everlasting 
boots  there  is  no  present  fear  of  the  poetic  sur- 
name becoming  extinct. 

Without  any  great  show  of  cordiality,  Trist 
shook  the  long,  nerveless  hand  extended  to  him. 
He  even  went  so  far  as  to  nod  familiarly  over 
Hicks'  shoulder  to  a  servant  avIio,  having  drawn 
back  a  chair,  fulfilled  his  immediate  duty  by 
waiting. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from,  old  man  ?  "  asked 
the  artist.  "  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  sleep- 
ing in  your  shirt  for  a  week." 

Like  many  of  his  tribe.  Hicks  had  a  great  no- 
tion of  being  all  things  to  all  men.  He  prided 
himself  exceedingly  upon  his  powers  of  adapta- 
bility to  environment.  With  men  he  was,  there- 
fore, slangy  ;  with  women  tender  and  poetic. 
With  the  former  he  could  not  be  manly,  and  for 
this  quality  he  substituted  an  inordinate  use  of 
language  more  descriptive  than  that  usually  em- 
ployed by  gentlemen  in  the  presence  of  ladies. 
Not  possessing  the  slightest  vein  of  humor,  he 
assumed  with  women  the  poetic  mantle,  and  sur- 
rounded himself  for  the  time  being  with  a  halo  of 
melancholy.  There  are  people  who,  while  endeav- 
oring to  be  all  things,  are  nothing — while  seek- 
ing to  render  themselves  valuable  to  the  many, 
are  of  use  to  none. 

*^  I  have  not  been  sleeping  much  in  anything," 
replied  Trist,  "and  just  at  the  moment  a  wash  is 
what  I  require.     After  that  some  dinner." 

This  served  as  an  answer  to  Hicks,  and  an  order 


126  SUSPENSE. 

to  the  waiter  at  the  same  time  ;  and  with  a  nod 
Trist  passed  ou  to  the  dressing-rooms. 

"  Whore  will  Mr.  Trist  dine  ?  "  asked  Hicks, 
turning  to  the  waiter,  and  speaking  soine\vh;it 
sharply,  as  people  do  who  fear  the  ridicule  of 
their  inferiors. 

**  At  my  table,  sir  I  "  with  a  certain  air  of  pos- 
session. 

"Then  just  move  my  plate  .  .  .  and  things 
...  to  the  same,  will  you  ?" 

When  the  war-correspondent  returned  to  the 
dining-room,  he  found  Hicks  established  at  the 
table  where  he  invariably  sat,  and  the  waiter 
holding  a  chair  in  readiness  for  him  with  a  face 
of  the  most  complete  stolidity.  Without  betray- 
ing either  pleasure  or  annoyance,  he  took  the 
proffered  chair  and  attacked  his  soup  in  a  busi- 
nesslike way,  which  did  not  promise  conversa- 
tional leisure. 

'*  In  a  deuce  of  a  hurry,  old  man  \"  suggested 
the  artist. 

"  Yes.     Have  to  catch  a  train." 

"Going  off  to  the  East,  I  suppose?"  asked 
Hicks  carelessly. 

With  his  shallow  blue  eyes  persistently  fixed  on 
Trist's  face,  he  stroked  his  mustache  daintily. 

*'  Yes." 

"To-night?" 

"  At  eight-twenty,"  replied  Trist,  meeting  his 
gaze  with  gentle  impatience. 

"Ah  !  Lady  Fearer  was  asking  me  the  other 
day  if  you  were  there,  or  on  the  way  to  the  seat 
of  war." 

**Lady  Fearer?  Don't  know  her,"  observed 
Trist,  with  his  mouth  full  of  broad. 

"  She  seemed  to  know  you." 


BAD  XEWS. 


127 


The  suggesliou  of  a  smile  flickered  Hcro8S  Trist's 
face,  but  his  entire  attention  was  absorbed  just 
then  by  a  bony  piece  of  turbot.  He  made  no 
answer,  and  silently  shelved  the  subject  in  a  man- 
ner wliieh  was  not  strictly  coniplinitniaiT  to  Mr. 
Hicks'  fair  and  aristocratic  friend. 

The  artist  was  one  of  tliose  excotdingly  pleas- 
ant persons  who  can  never  quite  realize  that  their 
presence  and  conversation  might,  without  serious 
inconvenience,  be  dispensed  witli.  The  mere  fact 
of  being  seen  in  friendly  intercourse  Mith  a  person 
of  nis  social  distinction  was,  in  his  own  simple 
heart,  Avorthy  of  the  consideration  of  greater 
men  than  Theodore  Trist.  In  recounting  the 
fact  later  of  his  having  dined  with  the  celebrated 
war-correspondent  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  for 
Bulgaria,  he  took  exceeding  great  care  to  omit 
the  mention  of  certain  details.  Moreover,  he 
allowed  it  to  be  understood  that  the  farewell  feast 
was  organized  by  Trist,  and  that  there  was  some 
subtle  political  meaning  in  the  hurried  interview 
thus  obtained. 

"  Trist,"  he  said,  with  a  suggestion  of  melan- 
choly, to  Lady  Fearer  and  other  of  his  friends, 
''  is  a  strange  fellow.  He  has  a  peculiar  repelling 
manner,  which  causes  people  to  imagine  that  he 
is  indifferent  to  them,  Xow,  when  I  dined  with 
him  at  the  '  Press  '  the  other  night,"  etc.,  etc. 

Trist  continued  his  dinner  AvitTi  that  tranquillity 
of  demeanor  which  marked  his  movements  upon 
all  occasions,  but  more  especially,  perhaps,  wlien 
he  was  displeased  or  very  much  on  the  alert.  The 
silence  which  followed  the  collapse  of  the  Lady 
Pearer  incident  did  not  appear  in  the  least  irk- 
some to  him,  whatever  it  may  have  been  to  his 
companion. 


138  SUSPENSE. 

Hicks  toyed  with  the  rind  of  his  late  cheese, 
iind  wondered  whether  tlie  novel  bow  of  his  volu- 
minous di'ess-tie  was  strai*^ht. 

'*  By  the  way,"  he  said  at  length.  **  have  you 
not  been  in  iVorway  with  the  Wylies  ?" 

The  young  artist  had  at  one  time  been  a  protege 
of  Mrs.  Wylie" s,  but  her  pi-otection  had  been  grad- 
ually witlidravvn. 

"  The  fair  Brenda  was  with  them,  n'est-ce 
pas?" 

Trist  broke  his  bread  with  grave  deliberation 
and  looked  stolid.  After  a  momentary  pause  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  his  companion's  face. 

"  Eh  ?"  he  murmured  softly. 

"  Miss  Gilholme,"  explained  the  other,  with  an 
involuntary  change  of  manner. 

"  Yes,  she  was  there." 

"I  thought,"  reflected  Hicks  aloud,  as  he 
stroked  his  mustache  contentedly,  ''  that  I  re- 
membered her  telling  me  that  she  was  going  to 
Norway.     How  is  she  ?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you.'' 

"  Is  she  any  stouter  ?  "  with  affectionate  inter- 
est. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Trist  suavely. 

''Because,"  continued  the  other  in  his  best 
"  private-view-of-the- Academy  "  style,  "that  is 
the  only  fault  I  have  to  find  with  her.  Her  figure 
is  perfect,  except  that  she  is  a  trifle  too  slight — 
if  you  understand." 

*'  Indeed,"  very  gently. 

"  From  an  artistic  point  of  view,  of  course," 
explained  Hicks  with  a  graceful  wave  of  his  hand, 
full  of  modest  deprecation.  For  some  unknown 
reason  a  sudden  sense  of  discomfort  had  come 
over  him. 


BAD  NEWS.  129 

"Ah,  I  am  not  ail  artist  .   .  .  thank  goodness  I" 

Hicks  glanced  uneasily  across  the  table  at  his 
companion.  There  was  something  in  the  calm 
tone  of  his  voice  that  was  not  quite  natural,  a  pecu- 
liar thrill  as  if  of  some  suppressed  emotion  which 
might  have  been  laughter,  but  was  more  probably 
anger,  AVilliam  Hicks  was  not  endowed  with 
that  species  of  brute  courage  which  enables  its 
possessor  to  enter  boldly  into  controversy,  wordy 
or  otherwise.  He  was  eminently  a  lover  of  peace, 
and  for  its  gentle  sake  was  ever  ready  to  suppress 
pride,  honor,  or  any  other  inconvenient  passion 
likely  to  prove  inimical  to  its  preservation. 

He  had  mixed  Avith  men  and  women  of  all  shades 
and  tastes.  They  were  mostly  affected,  hypocriti- 
cal, insincere,  and  utterly  wearisome  ;  but  there 
is  one  virtue  which  we  cannot  help  acquiring  from 
contact  with  our  fellow-beings,  however  silly, 
however  shallow  and  profitless,  their  influence  may 
be.'  This  virtue  is  tact,  and  William  Hicks  pos- 
sessed a  sufficiency  of  it  to  smooth  his  own  path 
through  life.  If  he  failed  to  use  it  for  the  bene- 
fit of  others,  neglected  to  render  the  footsteps  of 
others  less  stony  and  less  difficult,  he  was,  perhaps, 
no  Avorse  in  such  respect  than  the  majority  of 
us. 

He  now  began  to  perceive  that  he  had  taken  the 
wrong  road  toward  gaining  the  esteem  (or  per- 
haps the  toleration)  of  this  plain-spoken,  honest 
student  of  war. 

Trist  was  not  to  be  impressed  by  the  social  po- 
sition of  this  dilettante  dabbler  in  the  fine  arts. 
Soul,  pure  unvarnished  soul,  had  no  effect  upon 
his  mental  epidermis.  Poetry  in  curious  dress- 
clothes,  behind  a  singular  cambric  tie,  failed  to 
touch  his  inmost  being.     Then  a  brilliant  inspira- 

9 


1 3©  SUSPENSE. 

tion  came  to  this  ambitions  youth  who  attempted 
to  be  all  things  to  all  men.  Por  once  he  would 
be  natural.  On  this  one  occasion  sincerity  should 
grace  his  actions  and  his  wondrous  thoughts. 

"  I  say,  Trist,"  he  remarked  almost  earnestly, 
*'I  met  Martin  of  the  lloyal  Engineers  the  other 
day,  and  he  told  me  that  it  is  common  mess-room 
gossip  in  Ceylon  that  Alice  Huston  is  having  a 
miserable  life  of  it  out  there." 

Trist  had  almost  finished  his  dinner.  He 
looked  up  gravely,  and  there  was  in  his  eyes  a 
worried  expression,  which,  however,  the  artist 
(who,  like  most  self-satisfied  people,  was  not  ob- 
servant) failed  to  see. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  quietly,  almost  in- 
differently. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  other  in  the  perfunctorily 
sympathetic  tone  which  we  all  assume  while  rev- 
eling in  the  recital  of  evil  tidings.  *'  They  say 
that  Huston  drinks,  that  he  is  msidly  jealous  and 
coldly  indifferent  by  turns.  He  always  was  a 
brute.  I  remember  when  he  was  young  he  was  a 
gourmand,  and  professed  to  be  a  great  judge  of 
claret.  Now  a  boy  who  thinks  of  his  interior 
when  he  ought  to  be  hardening  his  muscles  will, 
in  all  human  probability,  turn  out  a  drinker.*' 

While  Hicks  was  giving  the  benefit  of  his  opin- 
ion, Trist  had  risen  from  the  table,  and  now  stood 
with  his  two  hands  upon  the  back  of  his  chair 
looking  down  thoughtfully  at  his  companion. 
The  artist  was  peeling  an  early  pear  with  great 
delicacy  of  fingering.  Before  the  war-correspond- 
ent had  time  to  say  anything,  he  continued  : 

"\  suppose,"  he  said  somewhat  pathetically, 
'*that  you  and  I  are  more  interested  in  the  Gil- 
holmes  than  most  people.     To  a  certain  extent 


BAD  NEWS.  13 1 

they  rely  upon  ua  as  old  friends.  That  is  why  1 
tell  you  this.     I  never  repeat  gossip,  you  know." 

The  last  addition  was  made  in  a  deprecating 
way,  as  if  to  apologize  for  a  celebrity  which  placed 
certain  personal  peculiarities  within  public  reach. 
Trist  had  not  heard  that  reticence  was  one  of  his 
companion's  characteristics,  and  he  treated  the 
remark  with  silent  contempt.  He  did  not  even 
smile  in  response  to  the  sympathetic  glance  of  the 
soulless  blue  eyes. 

*'  If,"  he  observed,  •'  they  rely  upon  us,  they 
will  expect  us  to  hold  our  tongues.  The  truest 
friendship  is  shown  in  talking  of  anything  but 
one's  friends.     I  must  go  now.     Good  night  I" 

The  artist  rose  and  held  out  his  delicate  hand. 
Within  Trist's  brown  and  sunburnt  fino"ers  the 
shapely  limb  looked  small  and  frail  and  very  use- 
less. The  very  manner  in  which  Hicks  stood  was 
in  strong  contrast  to  the  sturdy  deportment  of 
his  companion.  If  Brenda  Gilholme  should  at 
any  future  day  be  forced  to  rely  upon  one  of  these 
strikingly  dissimilar  men,  the  choice  would  surely 
be  no  hard  task  ;  for  one  was  all  latent  energy, 
quiet,  reserved,  and  manly  force,  while  the  other 
was  a  mere  creature  of  drawing-room  and  boudoir, 
a  lady's  kniglit,  a  dandy,  an  effeminate  egoist. 

And  the  stronger  man,  Theo  Trist,  went  out 
from  the  brilliant  chamber  down  the  broad  and 
silent  stairs,  out  of  the  huge  door,  wrapt  in  his 
own  thoughts  as  in  a  cloak  which  shielded  him 
from  men's  eyes,  for  he  saw  no  one,  heard  no 
sound,  and  was  sensible  of  no  definite  feeling. 

This  great  stone  building  was  as  a  home  to  him 
— the  only  home  he  had  ever  known.  The  faces 
of  the  servants  were  pleasantly  familiar  ;  the  still- 
ness of  the  vast  rooms,  the  very  softness  of  the 


I3i  SC/S/'£A'S£. 

rich  carpet  beneath  his  feet,  were  distinct  j^leas- 
ures,  and  imparted  a  pleasant  feeling  of  homeli- 
ness. And  from  this  he  passed  out  in  the  briglit 
August  evening  alone  and  absorbed.  To  the  war 
he  gave  no  thought,  neither  meditated  over  tlie 
ripening  fruits  of  his  pen.  There  was  before  lii.s 
meek  and  pensive  eyes  a  vision  which  woukl  not 
be  cast  aside,  lie  saw  a  yacht  rolling  gently  on 
the  still  waters  of  a  Xorthcrn  fjord.  The  sails 
Avere  hastily  clewed  up  or  lowered,  hanging  idle 
in  the  soft  breeze.  Away  behind,  clear  and  hard 
in  the  morning  light,  were  brown  liills  rising  sheer 
from  the  water — bleak  rooks  of  unlovely  contour. 
But  the  soul  of  the  whole  picture  looked  from  tlie 
eyes  of  a  slight  young  girl,  clad  in  sober  black, 
standing  barelieaded,  so  that  the  sun  gleamed  on 
her  soft  brown  hair,  beside  tlie  stern  rail,  smiling 
bravely. 

lie  had  left  Brenda  alone  in  the  midst  of  sorrow, 
and  now  he  knew  that  slie  was  on  her  way  homo 
to  England  to  meet  more  of  it.  Tiicre  is  nothing 
so  sad  in  human  life  as  the  bitter  realization  of 
human  helplessness.  Alice  Huston  was  miserable, 
and  Trist  knew  that  he  could  do  nothing.  He 
was  fully  aware  that  misery  with  her  meant  mis- 
ery to  otliers.  She  was  too  impulsive — too  self- 
ish, perhaps — to  keep  her  sorrows  to  liersolf,  and 
Brenda  would  sooner  or  later  bo  dragged  into  the 
trouble,  lie  smiled  to  himself  at  the  remem- 
brance of  William  Hicks'  words.  The  idea  of 
Brenda  Cilholme — the  gifted,  the  capable,  the 
learned — seeking  the  aid  of  this  exalte  artist  was 
ludicrous,  and  yet  Trist  did  not  smile  over  it  for 
long.  He  wished  that  there  had  been  anotlier 
man — such  a  man  as  himself,  he  nnconscioiisl/ 
Uecided — near  Brenda  at  this  time. 


BAD  N£:WS,  I3J 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  act  alone,  lie  perhapi 
assigned  to  the  spirit  of  independence  a  greater 
importance  in  the  average  nature  of  men  and 
women  than  such  spirit  really  occupies.  Inde- 
pendence or  self-dependence  is  a  quality  which, 
being  possessed,  brings  with  it  a  certain  blind- 
ness. A  man  such  as  Theodore  Trist,  whoso 
every  action  and  thought  receives  its  motive  from 
a  calm,  straightforward  independence,  cannot 
quite  realize  that  there  are  people  to  whom  the 
necessity  of  thinking  and  acting  on  their  own 
responsibility  is  little  short  of  agony.  He  waa 
sensible  in  a  vague  manner  that  Brenda  Gilholme 
was  an  exceptional  girl  in  many  Avays,  but  he 
never  through  all  his  life  quite  understood  that 
she  was  one  in  a  thousand.  His  life  and  work 
brought  him  into  contact  with  men,  and  men  ex- 
ceptionally ignorant  of  women  and  their  ways. 
In  his  dreamy,  chivalrous  way,  he  gave  women 
credit  for  a  luucli  greater  self-dependence  and 
self-sufficiency  than  they  possess — bless  them  all  ! 
In  leaving  Brenda  to  bring  home  I^frs.  Wylie,  and 
in  a  sense  to  take  commaiid  of  the  Hermione,  he 
acted  somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  the  soldier  who, 
leaving  his  subordinate  behind  while  he  goes  forth 
to  other  work,  feels  tliat  liis  late  duties  are  made 
over  to  hands  and  brains  in  all  probability  as 
competent  as  his  own,  but  merely  wanting  in  op- 
portunity. And  he  started  on  his  flying  journey 
across  Europe  without  the  knowledge  tliat  Brenda 
was  quietly  assuming  responsibilities  from  which 
many  older  women  would  have  shrunk  aghast. 

Xow  tliat  this  news  of  further  trouble  coming 
to  meet  her,  as  it  were,  from  the  East,  touched 
him  in  passing,  he  never  for  one  moment  doubted 
Brenda's   capability  to   meet  it,  and   act  in  th« 


t$4  SCrSPENSE. 

quickest  and  wisest  manucr.  But  there  was  a 
vague  apprehensiou,  nevertheless,  and  he  thought 
with  disoomfort  of  the  girl's  utter  loneliness. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

OFF? 

An  hour  later,  Theo  Trist  was  again  seated  in 
the  editor's  room.  The  large-headed  man  himself 
was  also  present  at  liis  desk,  amidst  u  chaos  of 
newspaper-cuttings  and  manuscripts. 

''  And  now,  Trist,"  he  was  saynig  in  his  terse, 
businesslike  way,  ""  suppose  anything  should  go 
wrong.  If  you  are  killed,  who  shall  I  tell,  and 
how  shall  I  tell  it  'i  " 

The  war-correspondent  looked  pensively  into  the 
llame  of  the  gas,  which  was  already  lighted  bo- 
cause  the  editor's  room  gathered  little  light  from 
heaven.  It  was  a  single  burner,  and  a  green-ghiss 
shade  cast  the  clear  white  light  down  upon  the 
table,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  room  in  shadow. 
Men  who  live  and  work  by  artificial  light  must 
needs  have  the  appliances  perfect.  Trist,  how- 
ever, was  within  the  radius  of  illumination,  being 
seated  on  alow  chair,  lie  raised  his  meek  eyes, 
turned  his  bland,  expressionless  face  toward  the 
editor,  and  smiled  speculatively. 

'•There  is,"  he  answered,  "'an  old  gentleman 
called  Trist  living  at  No.  \,  The  Terrace,  Chel- 
tenham. Will  you  take  down  the  address  ?  He 
is  a  very  nice  old  gentleman,  and  extremely  cour- 
teouB  to  ladies,     lie  is  my  father,  and  the  news  of 


OFFt 


135 


my  uutimely  demise  would  cause  him  considerable 
aunoyance.  You  see,  he  would  not  be  able  to  get 
his  usual  rubber  in  the  evening  for  a  few  days. 

'*Xo.  4,  The  Terrace,  Cheltenham,"  inter- 
rupted the  journalist  somewhat  abruptly  I  ''  How 
shall  I  tell  him  if  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  ?" 

"  Regret  to  announce  death  of  Theodore  Trist, 
your  son — or  something  of  that  description.  Don't 
exceed  the  shilling's  worth." 

The  editor  passed  his  strong  white  hand  thought- 
fully across  his  chin  with  a  rasping  sound. 

"Is  there  no  one  else?"  he  asked  indiffer- 
ently. 

Trist  thought  deeply  for  a  moment. 

"  Ye-es,"  he  murmured,  in  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  makes  an  effort  to  remember  some  small  social 
debt. 

The  editor  opened  again  the  small  leather-bound 
book  wherein  he  had  noted  the  address  of  the  nice 
old  gentleman  living  in  the  West  Country.  He 
passed  his  pen  over  the  page  and  waited  silently. 

"  Miss  Brenda  Gilholmc,"  Trist  dictated  slowly, 
in  order  that  his  hearer  might  write,  "  care  of 
Mrs.  Wylie,  Suffolk  Mansions,  W.,  or  Wyl's  Hall, 
AVyvenwich." 

These  items  having  been  duly  inscribed,  the 
journalist  closed  the  book  methodically  and  locked 
it  away  in  a  drawer. 

**  And  how,"  he  inquired,  '•  shall  I  break  it  to 
.  .  .  Miss  Brenda  Gilholme  ?  " 

*'  Oh — you  need  not  trouble  to  beat  round  the 
bush.     There  will  be  no  hysterics." 

As  he  spoke,  he  rose  and  looked  significantly  at 
his  watch. 

"  But."  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause,  **  if 
Mrs.  Wylie  is  in  town,  you  might,  perhaps,  go  up  to 


136  SUSPEA'SE. 

Suffolk  ^[ansions  yourself.     The  little   attention 
would  be  kindly  talcen." 

"  I  will,"  answered  the  editor  heartily.  lie  rose 
also,  and  took  his  hat  from  a  peg  behind  the  door. 
*'  But  we  will,  of  course,  take  it  for  granted  that 
the  necessity  will  never  arise.  I  don't  like  to  feel 
as  if  1  were  sending  a  fellow  where  I  would  not 
go  myself  .   .   .   and  jiaying  him  for  it." 

*'  No/'  said  Trist  in  his  gently  confident  way. 
"  The  necessity  will  never  arise,  you  need  not  fear 
that !  I  must  be  going — the  Strand  will  be  crowded 
with  theater-goers." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  the  great  journalist 
waved  it  aside. 

"  I  am  going,"  he  said,  "  to  Charing  Cross  with 
yon.     Unless  you  object ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  was  the  unemotional 
reply,  delivered  as  a  mere  matter  of  mechanical 
politeness.  At  times  Theo  Trist  betrayed  that  his 
indifference  to  the  smaller  sentiments  of  social 
intercourse  was  cultivated  and  slightly  artificial. 

"  There  is  no  one  else  going  to  see  you  off  ?  " 
inquired  the  editor. 

"  No  one." 

"  Then  I  will  go  with  you." 

So  these  two  men  passed  out  of  the  huge  build- 
ing together.  Each  was  in  his  way  a  power  in 
the  world.  Each  stood  at  the  top  of  his  own  partic- 
ular tree.  Passing  through  the  crowded  thorough- 
fare, they  could  not  fail  to  attract  some  attention, 
and  yet  Ihey  walked  on  in  sublime  unconscious- 
ness. Conceit  is  a  growth  that  flourishes  only  in 
the  spring  of  life,  unless  it  be  a  singularly  noxious 
and  hardy  weed.  In  summer,  and  before  the  au- 
tumn, it  usually  dies  down.  Xeither  of  these  men 
was  young — each  had,  years  ago,  given  up  think- 


OFF!  13^ 

ing  of  his  own  person.  To  both  the  work  placed 
ill  their  hauds  was  fully  absorbing,  and  a  busy 
man  has  little  leisure  to  contemplate  his  own  mani- 
fold advantages  and  points  of  superiority  over  the 
common  herd. 

Each  was  in  liis  sphere  a  genius,  and  there  is 
something  about  genius  that  attracts  the  eye,  al- 
though the  possessor  be  clad  in  modesty.  I  have 
seen  genius  clad  insometiiing  much  more  common 
than  modesty — namely,  rags — and  have  recognized 
it  witli  no  difficulty.  The  editor  of  the  great 
newspaper  was  in  appearance  a  somewhat  remark- 
able man  :  broad  of  shoulder,  with  a  massive  head 
and  huge  limbs,  he  was  one  of  those  exceptional 
beings  whom  men  turn  in  the  streets  to  look  at 
again.  His  companion  was  less  likely  to  attract 
an  observant  eye.  Although  he  was  taller,  ho 
seemed  to  require  less  sjDace  to  move  and  breathe 
in  than  his  companion.  His  movements  were 
smooth  and  quick,  while  in  passing  people  on  the 
pavement  he  touched  no  one,  and  never  got  in  the 
way,  as  did  the  absorbed  journalist  at  his  side. 
There  was  no  special  physical  peculiarity  about 
Theodore  Trist  to  stamp  him  in  men's  minds  as 
some  one  apart.  As  has  already  been  stated,  he 
carried  his  head  and  shoulders  with  the  upright- 
ness of  a  soldier,  and  it  was  only  the  keener  eyes 
around  that,  looking  into  his  face,  detected  the 
incongruity  of  his  physiognomy. 

*•'  Where  is  your  luggage  ?  "  inquired  the  editor 
suddenly,  as  they  walked  along. 

From  his  manner  it  would  appear  that  he  feared 
that  Trist  had  forgotten  this  necessary  item. 
Under  similar  circumstances  he  would  no  doubt 
have  done  so  himself. 

''It  ie  waiting  for  me  at  the  station/'  was  tb« 


138  SC/SPEA^SE. 

reply  ;  "  I  went  to  my   rooms   after  dinner  and 
jiacked  up." 

"  It  cannot  have  taken  you  lonff,"  abstractedly. 

**  No  ;  I  am  not  taking  much. 

The  journalist  scorned  suddenly  to  return  to 
practical  things. 

*' But,"  he  inquired,  "I  suppose  you  are  pre- 
pared to  stay  some  time  if  necessary  t " 

^' Oh  yes!" 

"  How  long  ?  " 

"  As  long  as  I  am  needed,"  replied  the  war- 
correspondent  very  deliberately.  There  was  no 
ring  of  doubt  or  hesitation  in  his  voice. 

**' You  are  an  ideal  special,"  said  the  other. 

"  It  is  best  to  be  consistent  even  in  trifles,"  ob- 
served Trist,  and  tlie  editor  made  no  reply.  Pres- 
ently he  continued,  as  if  speaking  his  own  thoughts 
aloud  : 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things  in  the  East. 
Russia  is  seething  ;  Turkey  is  ready,  and  .  .  . 
and  hell  is  brewing." 

"Let  it  brew  !"  said  the  philosophic  Trist. 

"  While  yon  stand  on  the  edge  of  the  vat  and 
watch  things  through  the  smoke." 

"Exactly." 

"Then,  Trist,  mind  you  do  not  fall  in.  No 
figiiting,  my  boy.  You  must  keep  in  the  back- 
ground this  time." 

"  If,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, you  would  be  the  very  tirst  man  to  recall 
me." 

"Yes,"  meditatively;  "I  suppose  I  should. 
But  you  can  duck  your  head  when  you  hear 
things  whistling  .  .   .   when  the  music  begins." 

Trist  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled. 

"  3Iy  ducking  days  are  done.     One  is  just  as 


OFF!  ■  139 

likely  to  duck  into  bullets  as  out  of  their  way. 
If,  as  yon  poetically  put  it,  hell  is  brewing,  I 
shall  stay  out  there  and  watch  the  process  as  long 
as  I  am  wanted  ;  but  if  it  is  all  the  same  to  you, 
I  should  like  to  be  with  the  Turks." 

"  I  thought  you  would.  In  case  of  war  between 
Russia  and  Turkey,  I  have  secured  Steinoff  to  go 
with  the  Russians.  With  Steinoff  on  one  side  and 
you  on  the  other,  there  will  not  be  a  newspaper  in 
the  world  to  come  near  us.  The  thought  of  it 
almost  makes  one  pray  for  war.*' 

'*  I  don't  think  you  need  do  that/'  murmured 
Trist,  selecting  a  fresh  cigar. 

The  journalist  glanced  at  him  with  some 
keenness. 

**  You  think  it  will  come  ?  " 

^'Ido." 

The  great  journalist  smiled  slowly,  and  as  Trist 
did  not  continue,  he  fell  into  a  long  reverie  which 
lasted  until  they  reached  Charing  Cross  Station. 

It  was  Monday  night,  and  the  mails  were  light, 
but  there  were  a  great  many  passengers.  Mostly 
pleasure-seekers,  these  travelers,  hurrying  away 
from  London  into  clearer  atmospheres,  and  across 
to  lands  where  the  art  of  enjoying  life  is  better 
understood.  The  great  train  was  ready,  standing 
next  to  that  right-hand  middle  platform  we  all 
know  so  well — a  very  ordinary  erection  of  brick 
covered  with  large  slabs  of  sandstone,  encumbered 
with  a  few  heavy  wooden  seats,  backless,  comfort- 
less ;  lighted  (in  1870,  when  Trist  went  off  to  the 
first  Turkish  war)  with  round-globed  lamps.  No 
spot  this  for  sentiment — no  place  for  thought. 
And  yet  what  scenes  have  been  illuminated  by 
those  round-globed  lamps  I  what  tears  have  fallen 
unheeded  on  the  sandstone  pavement !  what  feet 


14©  SUSPENSE. 

have  pressed  the  dnst  and  covered  np  the  tears  ! 
Conntless  men  have  stepped  from  that  platform, 
literally,  into  a  new  life.  Here  have  nameless 
waifs  looked  their  last  upon  London  iiaste,  before 
turning  to  other  lands  wiiert;  they  have  found 
naught  else  but  a  nameless  grave.  From  these 
dumb  stones  men  have  gone  forth  nnknoAvn,  un- 
liceded,  unwept,  to  return  even  as  Theodore  Trist 
liad  returned,  with  their  name  on  all  men's  lips. 
And — saddest  thought — brown-faced  wanderers 
Imve  walked  mechanically  out  of  this  same  station 
into  a  world  where  they  have  no  friends  left.  Re- 
turning from  a  life  misspent  in  selfish  absorption, 
they  have  passed  out  beneath  those  three-armed 
lamps  with  a  faint  sickening  thought  that  this  is 
liomc — old  England  at  last,  with  naught  but  graves 
and  memories  to  seek. 

Trist  soon  saw  his  luggage  into  the  hands  of 
the  guard.  The  ticket  was  taken,  and  more  than 
one  fussy  tourist  at  the  booking-office  window 
turned  to  look  again  at  the  quiet,  unobtrusive  man 
whose  destination  was  so  far  afield  as  Bucharest. 

The  little  tragedies  of  real  life  differ  in  one  im- 
portant point  from  those  represented  on  the  stage 
for  our  amusement  and  instruction,  "^rhis  point 
is  the  lamentable  lack  of  stage  management.  On 
the  boards  we  have  appropriate  scenery — a  bosky 
glade,  and  far  away  up  the  stage  a  shimmering 
calm  sea  with  moonlight  cleverly  thrown  upon  it. 
There  is  also  slow  music — piano,  pianissimo — and 
lowered  footlights  and  pretty  dresses.  But  in  real 
life  there  are  none  of  tliese  accessories.  In  my 
time  I  also  have  dabbled  a  little  in  tragedy,  as 
most  of  us  are,  sooner  or  later,  likely  to  do  ;  and 
there  was  no  soft  music,  no  distant  shimmering 
8ea,  no  whispering  pine  trees  and  sighing  glades. 


'  off!  141 

When  I  look  back  (with  a  j^eculiar  sensation  in 
the  region  of  the  collar),  there  are  only  memories 
of  railway-stations,  and  brief  moments  at  the  head 
of  the  staircase,  in  brilliant  ballrooms,  with 
laughter  all  round  us.  On  the  platform,  in  the 
midst  of  hurrying  porters  and  unsentimental 
trunks,  I  have  no  recollection  of  neatly  punctuated 
periods  or  flowery  observations  respecting  an  im- 
possible future.  (Ah,  that  time-worn  platitude 
about  meeting  hereafter,  and  living  an  impossible 
earthly  life  in  heaven,  how  sickening  it  is  !)  A 
quick  touch  of  nervous  lingers,  an  instantaneous 
glance  full  of  vague  fear,  that  is  all  I  remember. 
There  was  a  singular  lack  of  that  hesitating, 
"pauseful"  eloquence  which  makes  the  well-fed 
old  ladies  in  the  stalls  snivel  again.  But  if  there 
is  fault  to  be  found  I  must  be  to  blame,  because 
the  histrionic  school  of  pathos  appears  to  be  uni- 
versally accepted. 

After  Trist  had  secured  his  seat  and  lighted  his 
cigar,  there  were  still  five  minutes  to  spare.  The 
two  men  walked  backward  and  forward,  smoking 
placidly,  and  observing  the  excited  maneuvers  of 
the  British  tourist  "svith  a  slight  cynicism. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  the  editor,  ''  see  any  one  I 
know." 

"■  Nor  I,'"  replied  Trist  ;  ''and  I  am  not  sorry. 
Traveling  with  casual  acquaintances  is  not  an  un- 
mixed pleasure.  Besides,  I  want  to  read  all  the 
way  to  Vienna.  My  ignorance  regarding  the  po- 
litical intricacies  of  Montenegro,  Servia,  and  Bul- 
garia is  positively  appalling.*' 

'*  What  a  practical  beast  you  are,  Trist  !  " 

"  In  some  things.  And  even  in  those  it  is 
merely  a  matter  of  exercising  common-sense  a§ 
against  popular  sentiment." 


t4a  SUSPE/^SE. 

The  editor  raised  his  thoughtful  gray  eyes,  and 
looked  round  him.  There  were  last  greetings  in 
the  very  atmosphere,  and  to  his  ears  cunie  snatches 
of  conversation — promises,  most  of  them,  and  cer- 
tain of  nnfiilfilment,  to  write  and  think  of  those 
left  behind  or  going  afield  ;  half-shed  tears,  heav- 
ing bosoms,  wan  smiles,  and  convulsively  crushed 
handkerchiefs. 

''This  sort  of  thing  Y"  inquired  the  journalist 
with  a  comprehensive  wave  of  his  cigar. 

"  Yes  ;  cultivated  sorrow.  Tears  carefully 
forced  and  brought  on  by  artificial  fertilization 
or  cheap  sentiment.  With  some  people,  more  es- 
pecially among  women,  sorrow  is  nothing  else  than 
a  *  culte  ' — almost  a  religion.  They  look  upon 
it  as  their  bounden  duty  to  spin  out  to  the  ut- 
most limit  of  agony  their  farewells  and  their 
wearisome  troubles.  All  these  people  would  bo 
better  employed  in  reading  the  evening  paper 
at  home.  They  only  get  in  the  way  of  the  port- 
ers, and  puzzle  the  ticket-collectors  at  the  bar- 
rier." 

The  editor  laughed  in  a  tolerant  wav.  He  was 
a  much  older  man  than  Trist. 

'*  There  seems/'  he  said  suggestively,  "  to  be 
more  of  it  round  the  third-class  carriages  than 
here." 

'*'  The  result,  perliaps,  of  cheap  port-wine  at 
home.  The  poor  people  are  nowhere  in  the  higher 
walks  of  sentiment  without  port-wine." 

The  journalist  laughed  in  a  somewhat  perfunc- 
tory way. 

*'  I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  that 
you  would,  if  you  were  a  railway  director,  advocate 
closing  the  gates  of  the  platform  to  all  tearful  re- 
lations ?  " 


'*  Certainly.  Seeing  people  off  is  an  amuse- 
ment which  ought  never  to  have  been  instituted.'* 

''Perhaps,  then  .  .  .  I  had  better  go." 

It  was  Trist's  turn  to  laugh. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said,  flipping  the  ash  off  his 
cigar  with  a  backward  jerk  of  the  hand — "  not  at 
all.  I  do  not  anticipate  tliat  you  will  stand  snivel- 
ing at  the  carriage-window,  and,  when  the  train 
moves  away,  wave  a  limp  hand  and  a  damp  hand- 
kerchief smiling  feebly  through  your  tears." 

The  older  man  looked  up  at  the  clock,  of  which 
the  pointers  now  indicated  the  hour  for  starting. 

"  No,"  he  answered  abstractedly,  "I  do  not 
recognize  in  your  pleasing  picture  a  portrait  of 
myself.     Come  !  it  is  time  to  get  in." 

No  more  words  passed  between  them.  Trist 
stepped  into  the  carriage  and  closed  the  door 
after  him.  At  the  same  moment  the  guard  sig- 
naled, and  the  heavy  train  moved  slowly  away  into 
the  darkness.  All  within  the  great  arched  roof 
was  light  and  life  ;  beyond  lay  darkness  and  si- 
lence. A  turn  in  the  way  could  be  easily  followed 
by  watching  the  glowing  red  light  at  the  rear  of 
the  train,  and  this  presently  disappeared. 

Then  the  journalist  turned  on  his  heels  and 
walked  down  the  platform. 

"  That  man,"  he  murmured  to  himself  in  his 
absorbed  way,  "is  in  love." 

Thus,  without  drum  or  trumpet,  Theodore 
Trist  left  England,  and  set  forth  to  meet  the 
horrors  of  a  campaign  of  which  the  record  will 
in  future  history  be  a  red  and  sanguinary  blot 
npon  the  good  name  of  a  so-called  civilized  Con- 
tiaeut. 


BOOK  II. 
CHAPTER  I. 

AT  SEA. 

One  fine  day  late  in  the  iiutumii  of  eigliteeii 
hundred  and  seventy-six,  a  steamer  emerged  from 
the  haze  that  hiy  over  tlie  Athmtic  and  the  north- 
ern waters  of  the  Jiuy  of  Biscay.  Those  who 
were  working  in  the  fields  beiiind  tlie  lighthouse 
of  the  Pointe  de  Raz  saw  her  ajjproach  the  hind, 
sight  the  lighthouse,  and  then  steer  outward  again 
on  a  course  due  north  through  the  channel  dividing 
the  He  de  Sein  from  the  rocky  hciuUand  jutting 
out  from  this  most  western  point  <»f  Europe  into 
the  Atlantic. 

Those  on  board  the  steamer,  looking  across  the 
bhie  waters,  saw  tlie  faint  outline  of  a  high,  V)ro- 
ken  coast,  and  all  round  them  a  seii  divided  into 
races  and  smooth,  deep  pools  large  enough  to  an- 
chor a  whole  fleet  had  there  been  bottom  within 
reach.  Islands,  islets,  and  mere  rocks  ;  some 
jnttinghigh  up,  some  nestling  low.  A  dangerous 
coast,  and  a  s])lendid  fishing-ground. 

There  were  further  points  of  interest  on  tlie 
waters  ;  namely,  a  whole  fleet  of  sardine-boats 
from  Douarnem^z  and  Andierne.  scudding  hero  jiud 
there  with  their  bright  brown  sails,  sometimes  glow- 
ing in  the  sun.  sometimes  brooding  darkly  in  the 
i44 


AT  S:EA.  145 

shadow;  It  was  a  beautiful  picture,  because  the 
colors  were  brilliant ;  the  blue  sea  gradually 
merged  into  bright  green,  and  finished  off  in  tli<^ 
distance  with  yellow  sand  or  deep-brown  cliff. 
The  hills  toward  Breste.  to  the  north,  wei-e 
faintly  outlined  in  a  shadowy  haze  of  blue,  while 
close  at  hand  the  long  Atlantic  sweep  came 
bounding  in  and  broke  into  dazzling  white  ov^r 
the  rocks. 

On  the  deck  of  the  steamer  the  passengers  paused 
in  their  afternoon  j)romenade,  and,  leaning  their 
arms  on  the  liigh  rail,  contemplated  the  bright 
scene  with  evident  satisfaction.  The  small  fish- 
ing-boats were  of  a  more  British  build  than  most 
of  them  had  seen  for  some  years.  The  brown 
lug-sails  were  like  the  sails  of  an  English  fishing- 
boat,  and  many  of  these  swarthy-faced  wanderers 
had  recollections  of  childhood  which  came  surg- 
ing into  their  minds  at  the  sight  of  a  blue  sea  with 
a  brown  sail  on  it.  The  high  rocky  land  might 
well  be  England,  with  its  neat,  yellow  lighthouse 
and  low-roofed  cottages  nestling  among  the 
scanty  foliage  and  careful  cultivation.  It  was  so 
very  different  from  Madras,  so  unlike  Bombay, 
so  infinitely  superior  to  Plong  Kong.  The  breeze 
even  was  different  from  any  that  had  touched 
their  faces  for  many  a  day,  and  some  of  them 
actually  felt  cold — a  sensation  almost  forgotten. 

The  captain  of  this  splendid  steamer  was  a 
gentleman  as  well  as  a  good  sailor,  and  he  endeav- 
ored to  make  his  passengers  feel  at  home  while 
under  his  care.  Therefore  he  now  walked  aft  and 
stood  beside  the  chair  of  a  beautiful  woman  who 
was  always  alone,  always  indifferent,  always  re- 
pelling. 

^'Tnis  is  a  pretty  sight,  Mrs.  Huston,"  he  said 


146  SUSPENSE. 

pleasantly,  without  looking  down  at  her,  but 
standing  beside  her  chair.  He  gazed  across  the 
M'ater  toward  the  Ponte  de  Raz,  with  the  good- 
natured  patience  of  a  man  who  does  not  intend  to 
be  snubbed.  Once,  during  his  first  voyage  as 
commander,  a  woman  had  disappeared  from  the 
deck  one  dark  night,  and  since  then  the  shrewd 
"passenger"  captain  had  kept  his  eyes  U])on 
pretty  women  who  neither  flirted  nor  quarreled 
at  sea. 

"Yes,"  was  the  indifferent  answer;  and  the 
sailor's  keen  gray  eyes  detected  the  fact  that  the 
fair  lashes  were  never  raised. 

"It  brings  the  fact  before  one,"  he  continued, 
"  that  we  are  getting  near  home." 

"Yes,"  with  pathetic  indifference.  She  did 
not  even  make  the  pretense  of  looking  up,  and 
vet  there  was  no  visible  interest  in  the  book  that 
lay  ujjon  her  lap. 

The  sailor  moved  a  little,  and  leant  his  elbows 
upon  the  rail,  looking  round  his  ship  with  a  criti- 
cal and  all-seeing  eye. 

''  I  hope,"  he  said  cheerily,  "  that  there  is  no 
one  on  board  to  whom  the  sight  of  Eddystone  will 
Jiotgive  unmitigated  pleasure.  We  shall  be  there 
before  any  of  us  quite  realize  that  the  voyage  is 
dnr.ving  to  an  end." 

Then  the  l)eautiful  woman  made  a  little  effort. 
The  man's  kindness  of  heart  was  so  obvious,  his 
disinterested  desire  to  cheer  her  voluntary  solitude 
was  so  gentlemanly  in  its  feeling  and  so  entirely 
free  from  any  suggestion  of  inquisitiveness,  that 
she,  as  a  lady,  could  no  longer  treat  him  coldly. 
All  through  the  voyage  this  same  quiet  watcn- 
fulness  over  her  comfort  (which  displayed  itself 
in  little  passing  acts,  and  never  in  words)  had 


AT  SEA,  147 

been  exercised  by  the  man,  whose  most  difficult 
duties  were  not,  perhaps,  connected  solely  with 
the  perils  of  the  sea.  She  raised  her  head  and 
smiled  somewhat  wanly,  and  there  was  in  the 
action  and  in  the  expression  of  her  eyes  a  siuldpn, 
singular  resemblance  to  Brenda  Gilholme.  But 
it  was  a  weak  copy.  There  Avas  neither  the  invin- 
cible pluck  nor  the  unusual  intellectuality  to  be 
discerned. 

"  I  shall  be  glad,"  she  said,  ''  to  see  England 
again.  Although  the  voyage  has  been  very  pleas- 
ant and  very  .  .  .  peaceful.     Thanks  to  you." 

**  Not  at  all,"  he  answered  with  breezy  cheer- 
fulness ;  "I  have  done  remarkably  little  to  make 
things  pleasant.  It  has  been  a  quiet  voyage. 
We  are,  I  think,  a  quiet  lot  this  time.  Invalids 
mostly — in  body,  or  mind  !" 

At  these  last  words  the  lady  looked  up  suddenly 
into  the  captain's  pleasant  face.  In  her  manner 
there  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  coquetry — so  faint 
as  only  to  be  a  very  pleasant  suggestion.  Women 
who  have  been  flirts  in  former  years  have  this 
glance,  and  they  never  quite  lose  it.  Personally 
speaking,  I  like  it.  There  comes  from  its  influ- 
ence an  innocent  and  very  sociable  sensation  of 
familiarity  with  old  and  young  alike.  Some  day 
I  shall  write  a  learned  disquisition  on  the  art  of 
so-called  vice  of  flirting.  Look  out  for  it,  reader. 
Mind  and  secure  an  early  copy  from  your  stationer. 
From  its  thoughtful  pages  you  cannot  fail  to  gleam 
some  instructive  matter.  And  ye,  oh  flirts  I  buy 
it  up  and  show  it  to  your  friends  ;  for  it  will  be  a 
defense  of  your  maligned  species.  Flirts  are  the 
salt  of  social  existence.  A  girl  who  cannot  flirt 
is  .  .  .  is  ,  ,  ,    well    ...  is  not   the    girl    for 

me, 


Jig  SUSPENSK. 

The  mariner  looked  down  into  the  sad  face, 
and  Bmiled  in  a  comprehensive  way  which  seemed 
in  some  inexplicable  manner  to  bring  them  closer 
together. 

"  Then,"  said  the  lady,  "  as  I  am  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  rnde  health  and  likely  to  last  for  some 
years  yet,  I  may  infer  that  vou  know  all  abont 
jne." 

The  captain  looked  grave. 

"I  know,"  lie  answered,  "just  little  enough  to 
be  able  to  reply  that  I  know  nothing  when  ])eople 
do  me  the  honor  of  inquiring  ;  and  just  sufiicient 
to  feel  that  your  affairs  are  better  left  undiscussed 
by  ne." 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  sat  looking  at  her 
own  hands  in  a  dull,  apathetic  way.  Woman- 
like, she  acted  in  direct  op])osition  to  his  most 
obvious  hint. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  murmured,  "  that  gossips 
have  been  thrashing  the  whole  question  out  with 
their  customary  zest." 

"Ceylon  is  a  hot-bed  of  gossips.  Every  one  is 
up  in  his  neighbor's  affairs,  and  a  fine  voyage  in 
a  comfortable  steamer  is  not  calculated  to  still 
busy  tongues  ! " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  indifferently,  and 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  slight  pout  of  her  pretty 
lips. 

"Who  cares  ?"  she  asked  with  well-simulated 
levity.  He,  however,  did  not  choose  to  appear  as 
if  he  were  deceived,  which  simple  feat  was  well 
within  his  histrionic  capabilities  ;  for  his  life  was 
one  long  succession  of  petty  diplomatic  efforts. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  coolly,  "  that  you  have  done 
perfectly  right  in  keeping  yourseli  quite  apart 
from  the  rest  of  them.       He  looked  round  upon 


AT  SEA.  149 

the  other  passengers,  seated  or  lolling  about  the 
deck,  with  a  fatherly  tolerance.  "And  if  I  may 
suggest  it,  yon  cannot  do  better  than  to  continue 
doing  so  for  the  next  day  or  two  Avoid  more 
particularly  the  older  women.  The  jealousy  of  a 
young  girl  is  dangerous,  but  the  repelled  patron- 
age of  an  older  woman,  bristling  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  own  wearisome  irreproachibility, 
is  infinitely  more  to  be  feared  ! " 

This  remark  from  the  lips  of  a  man  who  un- 
doubtedly knew  more  than  is  usually  known  of 
the  feminine  side  of  humanity  appeared  to  suggest 
material  for  thought  to  the  somewhat  shallow 
brain  of  his  hearer.  She  dropped  the  lightly  reck- 
less style  at  once,  and  the  thought  that  this  honest 
and  simple-hearted  sailor  was  in  Jove  with  lier 
slowly  died  a  natural  death.  There  followed, 
moreover,  upon  its  demise  an  uncomfortable  sug- 
gestion that,  although  he  was  probably  honest,  he 
Avas  not  consequently  simple-hearted — that  he  was, 
in  fact,  a  match  for  her,  and,  knowing  it,  was  not 
at  that  moment  disposed  to  measure  mental  blades 
with  her. 

*'  I  am  glad,"  she  said  humbly,  '•'  that  my  sister 
will  be  at  Plymouth  to  meet  me.*' 

"Did  you,"  inquired  the  sailor,  "Avritefrom 
Port  Said  to  Miss  Gilholme  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  with  a  questioning  air,  but 
did  not  look  up. 

"  Miss  Gilholme,"  she  repeated — ''  how  do  you 
know  her  name  ?  " 

''Oh,"  laughed  the  captain,  "I  am  a  sort  of 
walking  directory.  There  is  a  constant  procession 
of  men  and  women  passing  before  me.  Many  of 
them  turn  aside  and  say  a  few  words.  Sometimes 
we   find   mutual   acquaintances,  sometimes   only 


'5° 


SUSPXJ7SE. 


mntual  interests.     Sometimes  they  pass  by  again, 
and  on  occasion  we  become  friends/' 

"  Then  you  have  not  met  her  ?" 

"  No — I  have  not  liad  that  pleasure/' 

"It  is  a  pleasure/'  said  the  beautiful  woman 
very  earnestly.  Had  she  only  known  it,  her  face 
was  infinitely  lovelier  in  grave  repose  than  in  most 
piquante  bouderie. 

*'  I  can  quite  believe  it/'  replied  the  sailor,  with 
a  gallantry  which  even  Mrs.  Huston  could  not 
take  as  anything  more  than  conventional. 

"  She  is  my  guardian  angel  !  "  murmured  she, 
pathetically. 

Her  companion  smiled  slightly,  in  a  very  un- 
sympathetic way.  His  opinion  of  "guardian  an- 
gels "  was  taken  from  a  practical  and  lamentably 
iinpoetical  point  of  view.  Having  played  the  part 
himself  on  several  occasions  with  more  or  less 
conspicuous  success,  he  inclined  to  a  belief  that 
the  glory  of  guardian  angelism  is  of  a  negative 
description.  There  are  certain  people  in  the  world 
who  will  accept  all  and  any  service,  and  to  whom 
the  feeling  of  indebtedness  is  without  a  hint  of 
shame.  In  time  they  come  to  consider  such  serv- 
ice as  has  previously  and  hitherto  been  rendered 
them  in  the  light  of  a  precedent.  Gradually  the 
debt  seems  to  glide  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
debtor  to  those  of  the  creditor,  and  having  once 
rendered  a  service,  the  renderer  has  simply  placed 
himself  under  an  obligation  to  continue  doing  so. 

AYhen  Mrs.  Huston,  therefore,  mentioned  the 
fact  that  her  sister  was  her  guardian  angel,  the 
pathos  of  the  observation  was  somewhat  lost  upon 
her  hearer  ;  who,  moreover,  was  slightly  prejudiced 
against  Brenda  because  such  guardian  angels  as 
had  crossed  his  path  were  of  a  weak  and  gullible 


AT  SEA.  151 

ttature.  He  never  made  her  acquaintance,  but  the 
impression  thus  conceived — though  totall}-  erro- 
neous— was  never  dispelled  by  such  small  details  of 
her  story  as  came  to  his  knowledge  in  later  years. 

"I  hear,"  the  captain  went  onto  explain,,  in 
his  cheery  impersonal  way,  "scraps  of  family  his- 
tories here  and  there,  and  then  am  ratlier  surprised 
to  meet  members  of  these  families,  or  persons  con- 
nected with  them." 

Mrs.  Huston  bravely  quelled  a  desire  to  talk  of 
her  own  affairs,  and  smiled  vaguely. 

"  I  have  no  doubt,"  she  said  with  mechanical 
pleasantness,  "  that  we  have  u  great  many 
mutual  acquaintances — if  we  only  knew  liow  to 
hit  upon  the  vein." 

*'  Of  course  we  have — the  world,  and  especially 
the  Indian  Avorld,  is  very  small." 

•'I  wonder  who  they  are?"  murmured  ^Irs. 
Huston,  raising  her  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"  Mention  a  few  of  your  friends,"  he  suggested, 
looking  down  into  her  eyes  somewhat  keenly. 

"  No — you  begin  !  " 

He  changed  his  position  somewhat,  and  stood 
upright,  free  from  the  rail,  but  his  glance  never 
left  her  face. 

"  Theodore  Trist !  " 

Instantly  she  averted  her  eyes.  For  a  moment 
she  was  quite  off  her  guard,  and  her  fingers 
strayed  in  a  nervous,  aimless  way  among  the  pages 
of  her  open  book.  To  her  pale  cheeks  the  warm 
color  mounted  as  if  a  glowing  ruby  reflection  had 
suddenly  been  cast  upon  the  delicate  skin. 

She  expressed  no  surprise  by  word  or  gesture, 
and  there  was  a  pause  of  considerable  duration 
before  at  length  she  spoke. 

'*  Where  is  he  now  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 


t^a  SC/SF£A'S£. 

Tlie  iiipiain  stroked  liis  grizzU'tl  mustaclie  ve- 
ll«(-ti\cly.  Ho  acted  his  part  well,  despite  her 
sudden  and  latntnitable  failure. 

'•  r.et  me  think  .  .  .  He  is  in  Constantinople  to 
the  best  of  my  knowledge.  He  is  engaged  in 
watching  Eastern  affairs.  It  seems  that  Turkey 
and  Russia  cannot  keep  their  hands  off  each 
other's  throats  much  longer.  At  present  there  is 
an  armistice,  but  Trist  has  been  through  the  late 
Avar  between  Servia  and  Turkey." 

''  Do  you  know  him  well  h  "  she  asked  at  length, 
after  a  second  pause. 

"  Yes.     He  is  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  A  great  friend  ?  " 

'•I  think  I  may  say  so." 

"  He  is  also  a  friend  of  ours — of  my  sister  and 
myself,"  said  Mrs.  Huston  calmly. 

She  had  quite  recovered  her  equanimity  by  now, 
and  the  pink  color  had  left  her  cheeks. 

"  I  have  known  him,"  said  the  captain  conver- 
sationally, •'  for  many  years  now.  Soon  after  he 
made  his  name  he  went  out  to  the  East  with  me, 
and  we  struck  up  a  friendship.  He  is  not  a  man 
who  makes  many  friends,  I  imagine." 

"  No,"  murmured  Mrs.  Huston,  in  a  voice  which 
implied  that  the  subject  was  not  distasteful  to  her, 
but  she  preferred  her  companion  to  talk  while 
she  listened. 

''But,"  continued  the  sailor,  *'•  those  who 
claim  him  as  a  friend  have  an  unusual  privilege. 
He  is  what  we  vaguely  call  at  sea  a  '  good  '  man — 
a  man  upon  whom  it  is  safe  to  place  reliance  in 
any  emergency,  under  all  circumstaiu'es." 

*' Yes,    said  the  lady  softly. 

"  He  has  been  doing  wonderful  work  out  in  the 
Hast  eince  the  beginning  of  the  insurrection.    We 


A  T  SEA. 


153 


have  a  set  of  men  out  tliere  such  as  no  nation  in 
the  world  could  produce  except  England — fellows 
who  go  about  with  their  lives  literally  in  their 
hands,  for  they^re  virtually  unprotected — men 
who  are  soldiers,  statesmen,  critics,  writers,  and 
explorers  all  in  one.  They  run  a  soldier's  risk 
without  the  recompense  of  a  soldier's  grave.  A 
statesman's  craft  must  be  theirs,  while  they  are 
forced  to  keep  two  diplomatic  requirements  ever 
before  their  eyes.  England  must  have  news  ;  the 
army  authorities  (whose  word  is  law)  must  be 
conciliated.  Traveling  by  day  and  night  alike, 
never  resting  for  many  consecutive  hours,  never 
laying  aside  the  responsibility  that  is  on  their 
shoulders,  they  are  expected  to  write  amidst  the 
din  of  battle,  on  a  gun-carriage  perhaps,  often  in 
the  saddle,  and  usually  at  night,  when  the  wearied 
army  is  asleep  ;  they  are  expected,  moreover,  to 
Avrite  well,  so  that  men  sitting  by  their  firesides 
in  London,  with  books  of  reference  at  hand,  may 
criticise  and  seek  in  vain  for  slip  or  error.  They 
are  expected  to  criticise  the  stratagem  of  the 
greatest  military  heads  around  them  without  the 
knowledge  possessed  by  the  officers  who  dictate 
their  coming  and  their  going,  throwing  them  a 
piece  of  stale  news  here  and  there  as  they  would 
throw  a  bone  to  a  dog.  All  this,  and  more,  is 
done  by  our  war-correspondents  ;  and  amidst  these 
wonderful  fellows  Theodore  Trist  stands  quite 
alone,  immeasurably  superior  to  them  all." 

The  vehement  sailor  was  interrupted  by  the 
sound  of  the  first  dinner-bell,  and  a  general  stir 
on  deck.  At  sea,  meal-times  are  hailed  with  a 
more  visible  joy  than  is  considered  decorous  on 
land,  and  no  time  is  lost  in  answering  the  glad 
summons. 


154  SUSPENSE. 

Mrs.  Huston  rose  hingnidly  from  her  seat  and 
moved  forward  toward  the  spacious  saloon  staircase. 

**  Yes,"  she  answered  thouglitfully,  *' Theo 
must  be  very  clever.  It  is  difficult  to  realize  tliat 
one's  friends  are  celebrated,  is  it  not  ?  *' 

The  captain  walked  by  her  side,  suiting  his 
crisp,  firm  step  to  her  languid  gait,  whicli  was, 
nevertheless,  very  graceful  in  its  rhythmic  ease, 
lier  voice  was  clear,  gentle,  and  somewhat  indif- 
ferent. On  her  face  there  was  no  other  expression 
than  the  customary  suggestion  of  pathetic  apathy. 

"  I  suppose,'*'  she  continued  in  a  conventional 
manner,  *'  that  he  will  not  be  home  for  some 
time." 

"  No.  There  will  be  a  big  war  before  this 
question  is  settled,  and  Trist  vrill  be  in  the  thick 
of  it." 

Witli  a  slight  inclination  of  the  head  she  passed 
away  from  him  and  disappeared  down  the  saloon 
stairs.  The  captain  turned  away  and  mounted 
the  little  brass  ladder  leading  to  the  bridge  with 
sailor-like  deliberation. 

"  And,  young  woman,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"  you  had  better  go  do\vn  to  your  cabin  and 
thank  your  God  on  your  bended  knees  that  Theo- 
dore Trist  is  not  in  England,  nor  likely  to  cross 
your  path  for  many  months  to  come." 

He  looked  round  him  Avith  his  habitual  cheery 
keenness,  and  said  a  few  words  to  the  second 
officer  who  wns  on  duty.  Could  he  have  seen 
Theodore  Trist  standing  at  that  moment  on  the 
deck  of  a  quick  despatch-boat,  racing  through 
the  Bosphorus  and  bound  for  England,  he  would 
not,  perhaps,  have  laughed  so  heartily  at  a  very 
mild  joke  made  by  his  subordinate  a  few  moments 
later. 


s/srE/?s. 


!5S 


*' And  yet,"  he  reflected,  as  he  made  his  way 
below  in  answer  to  the  second  dinner-bell — ' '  and 
yet,  she  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be  the  sort  of  woman 
for  Trist — not  good  enough  !  Perhaps  the  gossips 
are  wrong,  after  all,  and  he  does  not  care  for 
herl'^ 


CHAPTER  IL 

SISTERS. 

More  than  one  idler  in  Plymouth  Station,  one 
morning  in  October,  turned  his  head  to  look 
again  at  two  women  walking  side  by  side  on  the 
platform  near  to  the  London  train.  One,  the 
taller  of  the  two,  was  exceptionally  beautiful,  of 
a  fair,  delicate  type,  with  an  almost  perfect  figure 
and  a  face  fit  for  a  model  of  the  Madonna,  so  pure 
in  outline  was  it,  so  innocent  in  its  meaning.  The 
youuger  woman  was  slightly  shorter.  She  was 
clad  in  mourning,  which  contrasted  somewhat 
crudely  with  the  brighter  costume  of  her  com- 
panion. It  was  evident  that  these  two  were 
sisters  ;  they  walked  in  the  same  easy  way,  and 
especially  notable  was  a  certain  intrepid  carriage 
of  the  head,  which  I  venture  to  believe  is  essen- 
tially peculiar  to  high-born  Englishwomen. 

By  the  side  of  her  sister,  BrendaGilhome  might 
easily  pass  unnoticed.  Mrs.  Huston  was,  in  the 
usual  sense  of  the  word,  a  beautiful  woman,  and 
such  women  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  notoriety. 
Wherever  they  go  they  are  worshiped  at  a  dis- 
tance by  those  beneath  them  in  station,  patronized 


X56  SC/6T£JVS£. 

by  those  above  them,  respected  by  their  equals, 
because,  forsooth,  face  and  form  are  molded  with 
delicacy  and  precision.  The  mind  of  such  a 
woman  is  of  little  importance ;  the  person  is 
pleasing,  and  more  is  not  demanded.  Only  her 
husband  will  some  day  awaken  to  the  fact  that 
worship  from  a  distance  might  have  been  more 
satisfactory.  The  effect  of  personal  beauty  is  a 
lamentable  factor  which  cannot  be  denied.  All 
men,  good  and  bad  alike,  come  under  its  influence. 
A  lovely  woman  can  twist  most  of  us  round  her 
dainty  finger  witii  a  wanton  disregard  for  tlie 
powers  of  intellect  or  physical  energy. 

Brenda  was  not  beautiful  ;  she  was  only  pretty, 
with  a  dainty  refinement  of  heart  which  was  vis- 
ible in  her  delicate  face.  But  her  prettiness  was 
in  no  way  tainted  with  weakness,  as  was  her 
sister's  beauty.  She  was  strong  and  thoughtful, 
with  a  true  woman's  faculty  for  hiding  these  un- 
welcome qualities  from  the  eyes  of  inferior  men. 
She  had  grown  up  in  the  shadow  of  this  beauti- 
ful sister,  and  men  had  not  cared  to  seek  for 
intellect  where  they  saw  only  a  reflected  beauty. 
She  had  passed  through  a  social  Tiotoriety,  but 
eager  eyes  had  only  glanced  at  her  in  passing. 
She  had  merely  been  Alice  Gilholme's  sister,  aiul 
now — here  on  Plymouth  platform — Alice  Huston 
was  assuming  her  old  superiority.  My  brothers, 
think  of  this  !  It  must  have  been  a  wondrous 
love  that  overcame  such  drawl)acks.  that  passed 
by  with  tolerance  a  thousand  daily  slights.  And 
Brenda's  love  for  her  sister  accomplished  all  this. 
Ah,  and  more  I  In  the  days  that  followed  there 
was  a  greater  wrong — a  wrong  which  only  blind 
selfishness  could  have  inflicted — and  this  also 
Brenda  Gilholme  forgave. 


S/sr£JlS.  is7 

The  sisters  had  met  ou  the  steamboat  lauding 
a  few  momenta  preyioasly.  A  rattling  drive 
through  the  town  had  followed,  and  now  they 
were  able  to  speak  together  alone  for  the  first 
time.  There  had  been  no  display  of  emotion. 
The  beautiful  lips  had  met  lightly,  the  well- 
gloved  fingers  had  olaspetl  each  other  with  no 
nervous,  hysterical  fervor,  and  now  it  would  seem 
that  they  had  parted  but  a  week  a^o.  Emotion 
ia  tabooed  in  the  school  through  which  these  two 
had  passed — the  school  of  nineteenth-century 
society — and,  indeed,  we  appear  to  get  along  re- 
markably well  without  it. 

"  My  *dear,"  Mrs.  Huston  was  saying,  "  he  will 
be  home  by  the  next  boat  if  he  can  raise  the 
money.  We  cannot  count  on  more  than  a  week's 
start." 

"And,"   inquired  Brenda,  "can  he  raise  the 

money  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  !  If  he  can  get  as  far  as  the  steam- 
boat office  without  spending  it." 

Brenda  looked  at  ner  sister  in  a  curious  way. 

"  Spending  it  on  what  .  .  .  Alice  ?  " 

'•On— drink  !" 

Mrs.  Huston  was  not  the  woman  to  conceal  any 
of  her  own  grievances  from  quixotically  unselfish 
motives. 

Brenda  thought  for  some  moments  before  re- 
l)Iyino-. 

"••Then,"  she  said  at  length,  with  some  deter- 
mination, ''  we  must  make  sure  of  our  start,  if, 
that  is,  you  are  still  determined  to  leave  him." 

Mrs.  Huston  was  looking  down  at  her  sister's 
neat  black  dress,  about  which  there  was  a  subtle 
air  of  refined  luxury,  which  seemR  natural  to  some 
women,  and  part  of  tlicii-  being. 


15S  SUSPENSE. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  we  must.  By  the  way, 
dear,  you  are  in  mourning  .  .  .  for  whom  ?  " 

**  For  Admiral  Wylie,''  replied  Brenda  patiently. 

*'  But  it  is  two  months — is  it  not  ? — since  his 
death,  and  he  was  no  relation.  1  think  it  is  unnec- 
essary. Black  is  so  melancholy,  though  it  suits 
your  figure." 

"I  am  living  with  Mrs.  Wylie,"  Brenda  ex- 
plained with  unconscious  irony.  ''  Are  you  still 
determined  that  you  cannot  live  with  your  hus- 
band, Alice  ?" 

"  My  dear,  he  is  a  brute  !  I  am  not  an  impul- 
sive person,  but  I  think  that  if  he  should  catch 
me  again,  it  is  very  probable  that  I  should  do  some- 
thing desperate — kill  myself,  or  something  of 
that  sort." 

"  I  do  not  think,"  observed  Brenda  serenely, 
"  that  you  would  ever  kill  yourself." 

The  beautiful  woman  laughed  in  an  easy,  light- 
some way,  which  was  one  of  her  many  social  gifts. 
It  was  such  a  pleasantly  infectious  laugh,  so 
utterly  light-hearted,  and  so  ready  in  its  vocation 
of  filling  up  awkward  pauses. 

"  No,  perhaps  not.  But  in  the  meantime,  what 
is  to  become  of  me  ?  "Will  Mrs.  Wylie  take  me  in 
for  a  day  or  two,  or  shall  wo  seek  lodgings  ?  I 
have  some  money,  enough  to  last  a  month  or  so  ; 
but  I  must  have  two  new  dresses." 

"  Mrs.  Wylie  has  kindly  said  that  you  can  stay 
as  long  as  you  like.  But,  Alice,  it  would  never 
do  to  stay  in  London.  You  must  get  away  to 
some  small  place  on  the  seacoast,  or  somewhere 
whore  you  will  not  be  utterly  bored,  and  keep  in 
hiding  until  he  comes  home,  and  I  can  find  out 
what  he  intends  to  do." 

"  My  dear,  I  shall  be  utterly  bored  anywhere 


S/ST£/^S.  159 

except  in  London.  But  Brenda,  tell  me  .  .  . 
you  have  got  into  a  habit  of  talking  exactly  like 
Theo  Trist  ! " 

Brenda  met  her  sister's  eyes  with  a  bright 
smile. 

*'  How  funny  I"  she  exclaimed.  ''I  have  not 
noticed  it." 

"  No,  of  course ;  you — would  not  notice  it. 
When  will  he  be  home  ?  " 

The  girl  stopped  and  looked  critically  at  an  ad- 
vertisement suspended  on  the  wall  near  at  hand. 
It  was  a  huge  representation  of  a  colored  gentle- 
man upon  his  native  shore,  making  merry  over  a 
complicated  pair  of  braces.  She  had  never  seen 
the  work  of  art  before,  and  for  some  unknown 
reason  in  the  months — ay,  and  in  the  years  that 
followed — her  dislike  for  it  was  almost  nauseating 
in  its  intensity. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied  indifferently. 

**  We,"  continued  Mrs.  Huston,  following  out 
her  own  train  of  thought,  "  are  so  helpless.  We 
want  a  man  to  stand  by  us.  Of  course  papa  is  of 
no  use.  I  supi)ose  he  is  spouting  somewhere  about 
the  country.     He  srenerally  is." 

"  No,"  replied  Brenda,  with  a  wonderful  toler- 
ance. "  We  cannot  count  on  him.  He  is  in 
Ireland.  I  had  a  postcard  from  him  the  other 
day.  He  said  that  I  was  not  to  be  surprised  or 
shocked  to  hear  tliat  he  was  in  prison.  He  is 
trying  to  get  himself  arrested.  It  is,  he  says,  all 
part  of  the  campaign." 

Again  Mrs.  Huston's  pretty  laughter  made 
. thingfs  pleasant  and  sociable. 

"I  wonder  what  that  means."  she  exclaimed, 
smoothing  a  wrinkle  out  of  the  front  of  her  jacket 
for  the  benefit  of  a  military-looking  man,  with  a 


l6o  SUSPEA'SE. 

cigar  in  his  mouth,  who  st'ired  offensively  as  he 
passed. 

Brenda  shrugged  her  shoulders  slightly,  and 
said  nothing.  She  did  not  appear  to  attach  ;i 
\cry  great  importance  to  her  father's  political 
movements,  in  which  cnlpahle  neglect  she  was 
abetted  by  the  whole  of  England. 

*"  AV'hat  we  require,"'  continued  Mrs.  ITu^ion, 
"is  an  energetic  man  with  brains." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  energetic  men  with  brains 
have  in  most  cases  their  own  affairs  to  look 
after.  It  is  only  the  idle  ones  with  tongues 
who  have  time  to  devote  to  other  people's  busi- 


ness." 


"The 'brute,'  my  dear,  is  clever;  wo  must 
remember  that.  And  he  is  terribly  obstinate. 
There  is  a  sort  of  stubborn  bloodhoundism  about 
him  which  makes  me  shiver  when  I  think  that  he 
is  even  now  after  me,  in  all  probability.'' 

"  "We  must  be  cool  and  cunning,  and  brave  to 
fight  against  him,"  said  Brenda  practically. 

At  this  moment  the  guard  came  forward,  and 
held  the  door  of  their  comj)artment  invitingly 
open.  They  got  in,  and  found  themselves  alone. 
They  were  barely  seated,  opposite  to  each  other, 
•when  the  train  glided  smoothly  away. 

Brenda  sat  a  little  forward,  with  her  gloved 
hand  resting  on  the  window,  which  had  been 
lowered  by  the  guard.  They  were  seated  on  the 
landward  side  of  the  train,  and  as  she  looked  out 
her  eyes  rested  on  the  rising  hills  to  the  north 
with  a  vague,  unseeing  gaze. 

A  slight  movement  made  by  Mrs.  Huston  caused 
her  at  length  to  look  across,  and  the  two  sisters 
sat  for  a  second  searching  each  other's  eyes  for 
the  old  heart-whole  frankne-ss  which  never  seems 


s/sr£/is.  i6i 

to  survive  the  death  of  childhood  aud  the  birth  of 
separate  interests  in  life. 

"  Theo,"  said  the  elder  woman  significantly  at 
last,  ''is  brave  aud  cool  aud  cunning,  Brenda/' 

The  girl  made  an  effort,  but  the  old,  childish 
confidence  was  dead.  From  Theo  Trist,  the 
disciple  of  stoicism,  she  had  perhaps  learnt 
something  of  a  creed  whicli,  if  a  mistaken  one, 
renders  its  followers  of  great  value  in  the  world, 
for  they  never  intrude  their  own  private  feelings 
npon  public  attention.  That  effort  was  the  last. 
It  was  a  beginning  in  itself — the  first  stone  of  a 
wall  destined  to  rise  between  the  two  sisters,  built 
by  the  gray  hands  of  Time. 

"But,"  suggested  Brenda,  "Theo  is  in  Bul- 
garia. " 

Mrs.  Huston  smiled  with  all  the  conscious  power 
of  a  woman  who,  without  being  actually  vain, 
knows  the  market  value  and  the  moral  weight  of 
her  beauty. 

"  Suppose  I  telegraphed  to  him  that  I  Avanted 
him  to  come  to  me  at  once." 

Brenda  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  sister's  face. 
For  a  second  her  dainty  lip  quivered. 

"  You  must  not  do  that,"  she  said,  in  siich  a 
tone  of  invincible  opposition  that  her  sister  changed 
color,  and  looked  somewhat  hastily  in  another 
direction. 

"  1  suppose,"  murmured  the  elder  woman  after 
a  sliort  silence,  "  that  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
find  out  when  he  may  return  ?  " 

"  Quite  impossible.  This  'Eastern  Question,' 
as  it  is  called,  is  so  complicated  that  I  have  given 
up  trying  to  follow  it — besides,  I  do  not  see 
what  Theo  has  to  do  with  the  matter.  We  must 
act  alone,  Alice.'' 
u 


l62  SUSPEXSE. 

"  But  women  are  so  liel])let5S." 

Brenda  smiled  in  a  slijrhtly  ironical  way. 

*•■  Why  should  they  be  ?  "  she  asked  practically. 
"  I  am  not  afraid  of  Captain  Huston.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  at  all  events." 

"  He  was  !  "  put  in  his  wife  bitterly. 

"  And  I  suppose  there  is  something  left  of  hi.s 
former  self  ?  " 

"  Not  very  much,  my  dear.  At  least,  that  phase 
of  his  present  condition  has  been  religiously  hidden 
from  my  affectionate  gaze." 

Brenda  drew  her  gloves  pensively  up  her  slim 
wrists,  smoothing  out  the  wrinkles  in  the  black 
kid.  There  was  in  her  demeanor  an  air  of  capable 
attention,  something  between  that  accorded  by  a 
general  to  his  aide-de-camp  on  the  field  of  battle, 
and  the  keen  watchfulness  of  a  physician  while  his 
patient  speaks. 

"  Theo,"  she  said  conversationally,  ''would  be 
a  great  comfort  to  us.  He  is  so  steadfast  and  so 
entirely  reliable.  But  we  must  do  without  him. 
We  will  manage  somehow." 

**  I  am  horribly  afraid,  Brenda.  It  has  just 
come  to  me  ;  I  have  never  felt  it  before.  You 
seem  to  take  it  so  seriously,  and  .  .  .  and  I  ex- 
pected to  find  Theo  at  home." 

"  Theo  is  one  of  the  energetic  men  with  brains 
who  have  their  own  affairs  to  attend  to,"  said 
Brenda,  in  her  cheery  way.  "  AVe  are  not  his 
affairs  ;  besides,  as  I  mentioned  before,  he  is  in 
Bulgaria — in  his  element,  in  the  midst  of  con- 
fusion, insurrection,  war." 

"  But,"  repeated  Mrs.  Huston,  with  aggravat- 
ing unconsciousness  of  the  obvious  vanity  of  her 
words,  "  suppose  I  telegraphed  for  him  ?  " 

Brenda  laughed,  and  shook  her  head. 


s/sr£/?s.  t6$ 

"  I  have  a  melancholy  presentiment  that  if  you 
telegraphed  for  him  he  would  not  come.  There 
is  a  vnlgar  but  weighty  proverb  about  making 
one's  own  bed,  which  he  might  recommend  to 
our  notice." 

"  Then  Theo  must  liave  changed  V 

Brenda  raised  her  round,  blue  eyes,  and  glanced 
sideways  out  of  the  window.  She  was  playing 
idlj  with  the  strap  of  the  sash,  tapping  the  back 
of  her  hand  with  it. 

'•'  Theo,"  she  observed  indifferently,  "■  is  the 
incarnation  of  steadfastness.  "  He  has  not 
changed  in  any  perceptible  way.  But  he  is,  be- 
fore all  else,  a  war-correspondent.  I  cannot  im- 
agine that  any  one  should  possess  the  power  of 
dragging  him  away  from  the  seat  of  war.  ' 

Mrs.  Huston  smiled  vaguely  for  her  own  satis- 
faction. Her  imagination  was  apparently  capable 
of  greater  things.  It  was  rather  to  be  deplored 
that,  when  she  smiled,  the  expression  of  her 
beautiful  face  was  what  might  (by  a  true  friend 
behind  her  back)  be  called  a  trifle  vacuous. 

"  He  wrote,"  continued  the  younger  sister,  ''a 
very  good  article  the  other  day,  which  came  just 
within  the  limits  of  my  understanding.  It  was 
upon  the  dangers  of  alliance  ;  and  he  showed  that 
an  ally  who,  in  any  one  way,  might  at  some  time 
prove  disadvantageous,  is  better  avoided  from  the 
very  first.  It  was  apropos  of  the  Turkish-Chris- 
tian subjects  welcoming  a  Russian  invasion.  It 
seems  to  me,  Alice,  that  our  position  is  rather 
within  the  reach  of  that  argument." 

"  Being  a  soldier's  wife,  I  do  not  know  much 
about  military  matters  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that 
a  retreat  should  be  safely  covered  at  all  costs." 

"  Xot  at  all  costs/'  said  Brenda  significantly. 


164.  SUSP£A'S^. 

Her  color  had  changed,  and  there  was  a  wave  of 
pink  slowly  mounting  over  lier  throat. 

Mrs.  Huston  smiled  serenely,  and  shrugged  her 
whoulders. 

"^  I  do  not  see,"  she  expostulated  frankly, 
''  what  harm  tlierc  can  be  in  calling  in  the  aid  of 
an  old  friend." 

*'  I  would  rather  work  alone  ! "  was  Brenda's 
soft  reply. 

And  in  those  two  casual  remarks  there  lay  hid- 
den from  the  gaze  of  blinder  mortals  the  story  of 
two  lives. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ALICE    K  E  T  U  II  N  S. 

In  her  pleasant  room  on  the  second  floor  of 
Suffolk  Mansions,  Mrs.  Wylie  awaited  the  arrival 
of  the  two  sisters. 

From  without  there  came  a  suggestion  of  bus- 
tling life  in  the  continuous  hum  of  wheel-traffic  and 
an  occasional  cry,  not  uiimclodious,  from  enter- 
prising news-venders.  Witliin,  everything  spoke 
of  peaceful,  pleasant  comfort.  Tliore  was  a  large 
table  in  the  center  of  the  room  literally  covered 
with  periodical  and  pornianont  literature — a  pleas- 
ant table  to  sit  by,  for  there  was  invariably  some- 
thing of  interest  lying  upun  it.  a  safe  stimulant  to 
conversation.  The  dullest  :ind  shyest  man  could 
always  find  something  to  say  to  the  ready  listener 
who  sat  in  a  low  cane-chair  just  beyond  the  table, 
near   the   fire,    with    her    back   to   the    window. 


ALICE  RETURNS.  165 

There  were  many  strange  ornaments  about,  and  a 
number  of  curiosities  such  as  women  rarely  pur- 
chase in  foreign  lands  ;  also  sundry  small  impedi- 
ments suggestive  of  things  uauticaL 

Withal  there  was  in  the  very  atmosphere  a  sense 
of  womanliness.  The  subtle  odors  emanating 
from  wooden  constructions,  conceived  and  ex- 
ecuted by  dusky  strangers,  were  overpowered  by 
the  healthier  and  livelier  smell  of  flowers.  Helio- 
trope nestled  modestly  in  low  vases  from  Venice. 
There  was  also  mignonette,  and  on  the  mantel- 
piece a  great  snowy  bunch  of  Japanese  anemones 
thrust  into  a  bronze  vase  from  that  same  distant 
land,  all  looking,  as  it  were,  in  different  direc- 
tions, each  carrying  its  graceful  head  in  a  different 
way,  no  two  alike,  and  yet  all  lovely,  as  only  God 
can  make  things. 

I  cannot  explain  in  what  lay  the  charm  of  Mrs. 
Wylie's  drawing-room,  though  it  must  have  ema- 
nated from  the  lady  herself.  There  is  no  room 
like  it  that  I  know  of,  where  both  men  and  women 
experience  a  sudden  feeling  of  homeliness,  an 
entire  sense  of  refined  ease.  The  surroundings 
were  not  too  fragile  for  the  touch  of  a  man,  and 
yet  there  Avas  in  them  that  subtle  influence  of 
grace  and  daintiness  which  appeals  to  the  more 
delicate  fibers  of  a  woman's  soul,  and  makes  her 
recognize  her  own  element. 

The  widowed  lady  herself  was  little  changed 
since  we  last  met  her  in  the  Far  North.  But 
those  who  knew  her  well  were  cognizant  of  the  fact 
that  the  outward  signs  of  late  bereavement  so 
gracefully  worn  were  no  cynical  demonstration  of 
a  conventional  grief.  The  white-haired  old  man 
sleeping  among  the  nameless  sons  of  an  Arctic 
land   was    as    truly    mourned    by    this   cheerful 


1 66  SUSPF.A'S£. 

lui^lishwoman  as  ever  liusband  could  desire. 
'J'liere  was  perhaps  a  smaller  show  of  cultivated 
grief,  such  as  the  world  loves  to  contemplate, 
than  was  strictly  in  keeping  with  her  widow's  cap. 
Xo  lowered  tones  pulled  up  a  harmless  burst  of 
hilarity.  No  smothered  sighs  were  emitted  at 
inappropriate  times  in  order  to  impress  upon  ji 
M'orld,  already  full  enougii  of  sorrow,  the  presence 
of  an  abiding  woe. 

But  Brenda  Gilhohne  know  that  the  cure  was 
incomplete.  She  had  carried  through,  lo  the  end, 
the  task  left  her  by  Theo  Trist.  The  Hermione 
lay  snugly  anchored  by  the  oozy  banks  of  a  Sufi'olk 
river,  and  Mrs.  Wylic  was,  .'■o  to  speak,  herself 
again — that  is  to  say.  she  was  once  more  a  woman 
full  of  ready  sympathy,  gay  with  the  gay,  sorro\\- 
ing  with  the  afflicted.  If  l*»renda  in  her  analyti- 
cal way  saw  and  acknowledged  the  presence  of  a 
difference,  it  was  ])crhaps  notliing  more  than 
an  overstrained  feminine  susceptibility.  At  all 
events,  the  general  world  opined  that  Mrs.  Wylio 
was  as  jolly  as  ever.  Moreover,  they  insinuated 
in  a  good-natured  maiuu^r  that  the  Admiral  was, 
after  all,  many  years  her  senior,  and  that  she  in 
all  human  probal)i]ity  had  some  considerable  span 
of  existence  to  get  through  yet,  which  he  could 
not  have  shared  owing  to  advance  of  infirmity. 

One  admirable  characteristic  had  survived,  how- 
ever, this  change  in  her  life.  The  cheerv  inde- 
2)eTidenco  of  this  lady  was  untouched  by  the  liand 
of  sorrow.  It  was  lier  creed  that  at  all  costs  a 
smile  should  be  ready  for  the  world.  Kegardless 
of  criticiaui.  she  trod  her  own  path  through  a 
hypercritical  generation  :  and  by  seeking  to  cast 
the  light  of  a  brave  hopefulness  upon  it,  she  illn- 
minated  the  road  on  which  lier  near  contempo- 


ALICE  RETURNS.  1 67 

ravit'S  held  their  wuy.  Oin'  great  secret  of  her 
meihod  was  industry.  In  her  gentle  womanliness 
she  sought  work,  not  ufar.  but  hi  her  own  field, 
and  found  it  as  all  women  can  find  work  if  they 
seek  truly. 

Even  while  she  wus  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
sisters  she  was  not  idle.  On  her  lap  there  lay  a 
huge  scrap-book,  and  with  scissors  and  paste  she 
was  busy  collecting  and  arranging  in  due  order 
sundry  newspaper  cuttings.  That  scrap-book  will 
in  after-years  be  historical,  for  it  contained  every 
word  ever  printed  from  the  handwriting  of  Theo- 
dore Trist  u  p  to  the  date  of  the  day  when  Sirs.  "Wylie 
sat  alone  in  her  drawing-room.  From  its  pages 
more  than  one  book  on  tlie  art  of  making  war  has 
since  been  compiled,  and  from  those  printed  words 
more  than  one  general  of  many  nationalities  would 
confess  to  having  learnt  something. 

The  lady's  quick  ear  detected  the  sound  of  a 
cab  suddenly  stopping,  and  when  a  bell  rang  a 
few  moments  later  she  laid  aside  her  scissors  and 
rose  from  her  scat  vrith  no  sign  of  surprise. 

•'I  wonder,"  she  said,  "'of  Avhat  tragedy  or 
comed}'  this  may  be  the  beginning." 

There  Avas  a  certaiii  inatrunly  grace  in  her  move- 
ments as  she  opened  the  door  and  drew  Brenda 
Gilholme  to  her  arms. 

'•  Alice  has  come  with  me  I  "  said  the  girl. 

"  Yes.  dear."  replied  Mrs.  AVylie,  and  she  pro- 
ceeded to  greet  the  taller  sister  with  a  kiss  also, 
but  of  somewhat  less  warmth. 

Then  the  three  ladies  passed  into  the  drawing- 
room  together.  There  was  a  momentary  pause, 
during  whicli  3I]'s.  Huston  mechanically  loosened 
the  strings  of  her  smart  little  bonnet  and  looked 
j'ound  the  room  ap])reciatively. 


i68  SUSPENSE. 

*'  How  perfectly  delicious,"  she  exclaimed,  "  it 
is  to  see  a  comfortable  English  drawing-room 
again  !  I  almost  kissed  tlie  maid  who  opened  the 
door  ;  she  was  such  a  pleasant  contrast  to  sneak- 
ing Cingalese  servants." 

Mrs.  Wylie  smiled  sympathetically,  but  became 
grave  again  instantaneously.  Her  eyes  rested  for 
a  second  on  Brenda^s  face. 

''  Alice,"  explained  Brenda,  coming  forward  to 
the  fireplace  and  raising  one  neatly  shod  foot  to 
the  fender,  "  does  not  give  a  very  glowing  account 
of  Ceylon." 

*'Nor,"  added  Mrs.  Huston  with  light  pathos, 
**  of  the  blessed  state  of  matrimony." 

Mrs.  Wylie  drew  forward  a  chair. 

'^  Sit  down,"  she  said  hospitably,  "  and  warm 
yourselves.  We  will  have  some  tea  before  you 
take  your  things  off." 

*'  And  now,  Alice,"  she  resumed,  after  seating 
herself  in  the  softly  lined  cane  chair  near  the  lit- 
erary table,  "  tell  me  all  .  .  .  you  wish  to  tell 
me. 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  beautiful  woman,  removing 
her  gloves  daintily,  "  there  is  not  much  to  tell. 
Moreover,  the  story  has  not  the  merit  even  of  nov- 
elty. The  raw  material  is  lamentably  common- 
place, and  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  make  a  very  inter- 
esting thing  of  it.  Wretched  climate,  horribly 
dull  station,  thirsty  husband.     Voihl  tout  !  " 

^'  To  which,  however,"  suggested  Mrs.  Wylie 
with  a  peculiar  intonation,  *'  might  perhaps  be 
added  military  society  and  Indian  habits." 

The  younger  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  laughed. 

"Oh,    no!"     she     exclaimed     irresponsibly. 
*'  But  all  that  is  a  question  of  the  past,  and  the 


ALiCE  RETVRI^S.  169 

J)reseiit  is  important  enough  to  require  some  atten- 
tion." 

She  extended  her  feet  to  the  warmth  of  the  fire, 
and  contemplated  her  small  boots  with  some  sat- 
isfaction. 

''  Yes  .  .  .   ? " 

"  I  have  bolted,"  she  said,  replying  to  the  in- 
ferred query,  "  and  he  is  in  all  probability  after 
me." 

Mrs.  Wylie  turned  aside  the  screen  which  she 
was  holding  between  her  face  and  the  fire.  Her 
Intelligent  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  thesjieak- 
ers  face,  then  she  transferred  her  attention  to 
Breuda,  who  stood  near  the  mantelpiece  with  her 
two  gloved  hands  resting  on  the  marble.  The 
girl  was  gazing  down  between  her  extended  arms 
into  the  fire,  and  a  warm  glow  nestled  rosily  round 
her  face.     The  eyes  were  too  sad  for  their  years. 

*'  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  the   widow 
with  conviction. 

*'  There  was  no  alternative.  I  could  not  stand 
it  any  longer." 

"How    did    you    manage    it  ?  "    asked  Mrs. 
Wylie  quietly,  almost  too  quietly. 

''  Oh,  I  got  rid  of  some  Jewelry,  and  there  was 
a  Captain  Markynter  who  was  kind  enough  to  get 
my  ticket  and  see  me  off  I  " 

A  peculiar  silence  followed  this  cool  remark. 
Mrs.  Wylie  sat  quite  still,  holding  the  palm  screen 
before  her  face.  Brenda  stood  motionless  as  a 
statue.  Mrs.  Huston  curved  her  white  wrist,  and 
looked  compassionately  at  a  small  red  mark  made 
by  the  button  of  her  glove.  At  length  the  uneasy 
pause  was  broken.  Without  moving,  Brenda 
Bpoke  in  a  cool,  clear  voice,  almost  monotonous. 

**  Alice,"  she  explained.     "'  is  a  great  advocate 


170  Sl/SPEATSE. 

U\Y  masculine  assistance.  Slie  (Considers  us  totally 
iiK'apable  of  niaiuiging  our  own  affairs,  andpuwer- 
Jcss  to  act  for  ourselves.  She  has  been  regretting 
all  day  that  Theo  should  be  away,  and  consequent- 
ly beyond  our  call." 

Mrs.  Huston  laughed  somewhat  forcedly,  and 
drew  in  her  feet. 

•'•  It  is  like  this."  she  explained.  ••  If  my  hus- 
band catches  me  1  think  I  shall  proliably  kill  my- 
self !  Theo  is  so  strong  and  reliable,  and  somehow 
.  .  .  so  capable,  that  I  naturally  thought  of  him 
in  mv  emergencv." 

*•' Katurallv,"  echoed  ]Mrs.  Wvlie  meelnuiicall'.'. 

At  that  moment  she  was  not  thinking  whotlu  r 
her  monosyllabic  rc?nark  Avas  cruellv  sarcastic  nr 
simply  silly.  Iler  whole  mind  was  devoted  to  the 
study  of  lironda's  face,  upon  which  the  firelight 
glowed  ;  but  in  the  proud  young  features  there 
was  nothing  legible — nothing  beyond  a  somewhat 
anxious  though tfulness. 

•^Itliink,"  continued  ^Irs.  Huston,  ••  that  we 
may  count  on  a  week's  start.  ^ly  affectionate 
husband  cannot  l)e  here  before  then." 

To  this  neither  lady  made  reply.  The  servant 
f^ime  in,  and  in  a  few  moments  tea  was  served. 
Brenda  presided  over  the  little  basket  table,  ;ind 
])repared  each  cup  with  a  forekm^wledge  of  the 
.-several  tastes.  During  this  there  was  no  word 
spoken.  From  the  nonchalance  of  the  ladies'  man- 
ner one  might  easily  hav(i  imagined  that  the 
younger  couple  had  just  come  in  from  along  day's 
shopping. 

*'  Ilave  you,*' asked  the  widow  at  length,  as  she 
stirred  her  tea  placidly,  "thought  of  what  you 
are  doing  ?  " 

"Oh,   yes  I"  M'as    the    laughing    rejoinder,    iu 


ALICE  RETURNS.  171 

which,  however,  there  was  no  mirth.  "  Oh,  yes  ! 
I  have  thought,  and  thought,  and  thought  until 
the  subject  was  thrashed  out  dry.  There  waa 
nothing  else  to  do  but  think,  and  read  yellow- 
backed  novels,  all  the  voyage  home." 

"Then,'"  murmured  the  widow,  with  gentle 
interrogation,  *'  this  Captain  Parmiuter  did  not 
come  home  Avith  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Huston  changed  color,  and  her  lips  moved 
slightly.  She  glanced  toward  Mrs.  Wylie  beneatli 
her  dark  lashes,  and  answered  with  infinite  self- 
possessiou  : 

"No  !     And  his  name  is  Markynter." 

The  palm-leaf  did  not  move.  Presently,  how- 
ever, Mrs.  Wylie  laid  it  aside,  and  asked  for  some 
more  tea. 

"  Well,'"' she  said  cheerily,  "I  suppose  we  must 
make  the  best  of  a  very  bad  bargain.  What  do 
you  propose  to  do  next  ?'' 

In  the  most  natural  and  confiding  way  imagin- 
able, Mrs.  Huston  looked  up  toward  her  sister, 
who  was  still  standing.  There  was  an  almost  im- 
perceptible sln-ug  of  her  shoulders. 

"Brenda,"  she  answered,  "says  that  I  must 
run  away  and  hide  in  some  small  village,  which  ia 
not  exactly  a  cheerful  prospect." 

"It  would  hardly  do,"  said  Brenda,  as  il  in  de- 
fense of  her  own  theory,  "  to  go  down  to  Brighton 
and  stay  at  the  Bedford  Hotel,  for  instance."' 

"  If,"  added  Mrs.  Wylie  in  the  same  tone, 
"you  really  want  to  avoid  your  husband,  you 
must  certainly  hide  ;  but  I  do  not  see  what  you 
can  gain  by  such  a  proceeding.  It  can  never  be 
permanent,  and  you  will  soon  get  tired  of  chasing 
each  other  i-ound  England." 

»'  Perhaps  lie  ^\!l]  get  tired  of  it  firgt" 


172  SUSPENSE. 

**  If  he  does,  what  will  yonr  position  be  ?     Some- 
what ambiguous,  I  imagine.'" 

'*  It  cannot  bo  worse  than  it  is  at  present." 

"Oh,  yes,*'  replied    the    Avidow    calmly.      "It 
can  ! " 

She  set  her  empty  cup  on  the  tray,  and  sat  with 
her  two  hands  clasped  together  on  her  lap.  She 
had  not  come  through  fifty  years  of  life,  this 
placid  lady,  without  learning  something  of  the 
world's  ways,  and  slie  recognized  instantly  what 
Alice  Huston's  position  was.  It  was  the  old  story 
which  is  told  every  day  in  all  ]iarts  of  the  world, 
more  especially,  perhajis,  in  India — the  wearisome 
tale  of  a  mistaken  marriage  between  a  man  of  small 
intellect  and  a  woman  of  less.  If  both  husband 
and  wife  be  busy,  the  one  with  his  bread-winning, 
the  other  with  her  babies,  such  unions  may  be  a 
near  approach  to  animal  happiness — no  more  can 
be  hoped  for.  The  Aery  instincts  of  it  are  animal, 
and  as  such  it  is  safe.  But  if  one  or  both  be  idle, 
the  result  is  simply  "  hell."  No  other  expression 
can  come  near  it. 

Captain  Huston's  military  duties  were  not  such 
as  occupied  more  than  a  few  hours  of  the  week, 
and  during  the  rest  of  his  existence  he  was  actively 
idle.  His  mind  Avas  falloAv  ;  he  Avas  totally  with- 
out resource,  without  occupation,  Avith out  interest. 
There  is  no  man  on  earth  to  beat  the  ordinary 
British  military  ofiicer  in  doAvnright  futile  idle- 
ness. The  Spanish  Custom-house  official  runs  a 
close  race  with  the  Italian  inn-keeper  in  this  mat- 
ter, but  both  enjoy  their  laziness,  and  are  never 
bored.  When  our  commissioned  defender  is  nat- 
urally of  an  idle  turn  of  mind,  he  is  intensely 
bored  ;  his  existence  is  one  long  yawn,  and  the 
faculty  of  enjoyment  dies  a  natural  death   within 


ALICE  RETURNS.  173 

his  sonl.  I  can  think  of  no  more  despicable 
sample  of  humanity  than  a  man  who  cannot  find 
himself  something  to  do  under  all  circumstances, 
and  in  all  places  ;  and  surely  no  one  can  blame 
his  Satanic  majesty  for  a  proverbial  readiness  to 
supply  the  deficiency  from  his  own  store  of  easy 
tasks. 

If  Alice  Gilholme  had  searched  through  the  en- 
tire army-list,  she  could  scarcely  have  found  a 
man  less  suitable  to  be  her  husband  than  Captain 
Huston.  Petty,  short-sighted  jealousy  on  his 
part,  vapid  coquetry  on  hers,  soon  led  to  the  in- 
e\itable  end,  and  the  result  was  throwrn  upon  the 
hands  of  Brenda  and  Mrs.  Wylie  with  easy  non- 
chalance by  the  spoilt  child  of  society. 

It  was  no  sudden  disillusionment  for  Brenda, 
but  merely  one  more  wretched  curtain  torn  aside 
to  display  the  hideous  reality  of  human  existence 
and  human  selfishness.  No  thought  of  complaint 
entered  the  girl's  head.  With  a  pathetic  silence 
she  simply  applied  herself  to  the  task  set  before 
her,  with  no  great  hope  of  reaching  a  satisfactory 
solution. 

Before  the  three  ladies  had  spoken  further  upon 
the  subject  chiefly  occupying  their  thoughts,  the 
drawing-room  door  Avas  thrown  open,  and  with 
studied  grace  William  Hicks  crossed  the  thres- 
hold. 

The  hat  that  he  carried  daintilv  in  his  left  hand 
was  not  quite  the  same  in  contour  as  those  worn  by 
his  contemporaries.  To  ensure  this  peculiarity,  the 
artist  was  forced  to  send  to  Paris  for  his  head-gear, 
where  he  paid  a  higer  price  and  received  an  infer- 
ior article.  But  the  distinction  conferred  by  a 
unique  hat  is  i)ractically  immeasurable  and  with- 
out price,     Mr,  Hicks'  gloves  weve  also  out  of  the 


174  SUSPENSE, 

common  ;  likewise  his  etrangely  cut  coat  and  mis- 
Bhapeu  continuations. 

Ihe  tout  ensemble  was  undoubtedly  pleasing. 
It  must  have  been  so,  because  he  was  obviously 
satisfied,  and  the  artistic  eye  is  the  acknowledged 
arbitrator  in  matters  of  outward  adornment, 
whether  it  be  of  mantel-shelves  or  human  forma 
divine. 

The  three  ladies  turned  to  greet  him  with  that 
ready  feminine  smile  which  is  ever  there  to  lubri- 
cate matters  when  the  social  wheel  may  squeak 
or  grate. 

*'  Oh,  bother  ! ''  whispered  Brenda  to  herself,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

'' What  ?"  exclaimed  Hicks,  with  languid  sur- 
prise and  visibly  deep  pleasure.  *'  Mrs.  Huston  !  I 
am  delighted.  When  I  left  my  studio  and  plunged 
into  all  this  mist  and  gloom  this  afternoon,  I 
never  thought  that  both  would  be  dispelled  so 
suddenly.'' 

''Is  it  dispelled  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Huston,  glanc- 
ing playfully  toward  the  window. 

"In  here  it  is.  But  then,''  he  added,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  Mrs.  AVylie,  •■•  there  is  never 
any  mist  or  gloom  in  this  room." 

With  a  pleasant  laugh,  as  if  deprecating  his 
own  folly  he  turned  to  greet  Brenda,  who  had 
stood  near  the  niantelpie(;e  with  her  gloved  hand 
extended.  Then  his  manner  changed.  More- 
over, it  was  a  distinctly  advantageous  alteration. 
One  would  have  imagined,  from  the  expression 
of  his  handsome  but  thoroughly  weak  face, 
that  if  there  was  anybody  on  earth  whom  he 
respected  and  admired,  almost  as  much  as  he  re- 
ppeeted  and  admired  William  Hicks,  that  person 
was  Brenda, 


ALICE  RETURNS.  175 

For  her  he  had  no  neatly  turned  pleasantry — 
no  easy,  infectious  laugh. 

'•  I  did  not  know  you  were  coming  home,  Mrs. 
Huston,"  he  said,  turning  again  to  that  lady. 
Then  his  social  training  enabled  him  to  detect  un- 
erringly that  heniiglit  be  on  a  dangerous  trail, 
and  with  ready  skill  he  turned  aside.  "  This  is 
not  the  best  time  of  year,"  he  continued,  *'to 
return  to  your  native  shores.  Personally,  I  am 
rather  disgusted  with  the  shore  in  question,  but 
we  must  surely  hope  for  some  more  sunshine  be- 
fore we  finally  bid  farewell  to  the  orb  of  day  for 
the  winter.  Wo  poor  artists  are  the  chief  sufferers, 
I  am  sure." 

''At  all  events,"  put  in  Mrs.  Wylie  easily, 
'*'  you  take  it  upon  yourselves  to  grumble  most. 
There  is  always  something  to  displease  yon 
— the  want  of  daylight,  the  scarcity  of  buyers, 
or  the  hopeless  stupidity  of  the  hanging-com- 
mittee." 

"I  think  I  confine  my  observations  to  the 
weather,"  murmured  Hicks,  gazing  sadly  into  the 
fire,  toward  which  bourne  Brenda's  glance  was 
also  apparently  directed,  for  she  presently  pressed 
the  arlowing  coals  down  with  the  soleof  her  daintv 
boot,  and  quite  lost  the  studied  poesy  of  the  artist's 
expression.  •'  I  am,  I  think,"  he  continued 
linmbly,  "  independent  of  buyers  and  hanging- 
committees.  I  do  not  exhibit  at  Burlington 
House,  and  you  know  I  never  sell." 

"Indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Huston,  with  slight  in- 
terest, for  the  elder  lady  had  turned  away  and  was 
busy  with  her  second  cup  of  tea,  which  was  almost 
cold. 

"  No,"  answered  Hicks,  with  the  eagerness  that 
comes  to  egotistical  talkers  when  they  are    sure 


17^  SUSPENSE. 

of  a  new  listener.  "  No.  I  don't  care  to  eutei' 
into  com})etition  with  men  wlio  depend  more  ujion 
conventional  training  than  natural  talent.  The 
Royal  Academy  is  only  a  human  institution,  and 
perhaps  it  is  only  natural  that  their  own  students 
should  be  favored  before  all  others.  I  am  not  an 
Academy  student,  you  know  !  " 

Mrs.  Huston  contented  herself  with  no  more 
compromising'  affirmative  tlian  a  gracious  inclina- 
of  the  head.  It  is  jnst  possiljle  that,  fresh  from 
Ceylon,  and  consequently  deplorably  ignorant  of 
artistic  affairs  as  she  was,  the  knowledge  that 
William  Hicks  was  not  an  Academy  student  had 
been  denied  her.  This  most  lamentable  fact, 
however,  if  it  existed,  she  concealed  with  all  the 
cleverness  of  her  sex,  and  Hicks  came  to  the  con- 
clusion, later  on,  tliat  siie  mnst  have  ktiown. 
He  could  not  conceive  it  possible  that  a  woman 
moving  in  intelligent  circles,  although  in  the 
outer  rims  thereof,  and  far  from  the  living  center 
of  Kensington,  could  be  unaware  of  such  an  im- 
portant item  in  his  own  personal  history;  this 
being  no  mean  part  of  the  artistic  history  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

Enveloped  as  he  was,  however,  in  conceit,  he 
had  the  good  taste  to  perceive  that  his  bewilder- 
ing presence  was  on  this  particular  occasion  liable 
to  be  considered  bliss  of  an  alloyed  description, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  took  his  leave. 

As  he  was  moving  round  and  saying  good-by, 
Mrs.  Huston  returned  to  the  artistic  question, 
from  which  they  had  never  strayed  very  far. 
Indeed,  art  was  somewhat  apt  to  become  a  nan- 
seating  subject  of  conversation  wherever  William 
llicks  was  allowed  to  influence  matters  to  any 
extent. 


ALICE  RETURNS.  fjf 

"  You  have  never  sent  pictures  to  the  Academy, 
Mien  ?  "  she  asked  innocently. 

•'Oh,  no!"  he  answered  with  mild  horror. 
'"'  Good-by,  so  glad  to  see  you  home  again." 

And  then  he  vanished. 

Mrs.  Wylie  watched  his  retreating  figure  with 
pleasant  and  sociable  expression  on  her  intel- 
ligent face. 

"That,"  she  was  reflecting,  "is  a  lie  !"  She 
happened  to  know  that  Ilicks  had  been  refused  a 
a  place  on  the  walls  of  Burlington  House. 

If  I  were  a  ghost,  or  if  I  evei-  come  to  be  one,  I 
shall  not  take  up  the  old,  time-worn  crafr.  of 
frightening  people  during  the  stilly  hours.  In- 
stead of  such  uninteresting  work,  I  shall  make  a 
collection  in  a  phantom  pocketbook  of  asidos  and 
murmured  reflections.  From  such,  an  interesting 
study  of  earthly  existence,  and  more  particularly 
of  social  life,  might  well  be  made. 

On  those  phantom  pages  might,  for  instance, 
be  inscribed  the  reflections  of  William  Ilicks  as 
he  made  his  way  down  the  broad  staircase  of 
Suffolk  Mansions. 

"  Whew  !  "  was  their  tenor  ;  "ran  right  into  it. 
She's  left  him  ;  I  could  see  that.  Seems  to  me 
she's  on  the  verge  of  a  catastroplie — divorce  or 
separation,  or  something  like  that." 

In  the  drawing-room  Mrs.  Wylie  was  saying  re- 
flectively to  either  or  both  of  her  companions  : 

"  This  is  the  beginning  of  it.  That  man  will 
tell  every  one  he  meets  before  going  to  bed  to- 
night that  you  are  home.  He  did  not  ask  where 
your  husband  was,  which  shows  that  he  wanted 
to  know  ;  consequently  he  will  wonder  over  it, 
and  Avill  take  care  to  tell  every  one  what  he  ia 
wondering  about." 


I  ;^  SL'SF£NS£:. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

T  O     T  II  K      F  R  O  N  T. 

A  WEEK  lator  liroiidu  was  sitting  in  tlie  same 
apartment  again.  But  tliis  lime  she  \vas  alone. 
hvovc\  pure  kindness  of  heart  ilrs.  AVylie  liad 
managed  to  allow  the  girl  an  afternoon's  leisure. 
;ind  Brenda  was  s})enuing  this  very  happily  nmidst 
her  books  and  magazines.  She  was,  in  her  way, 
a  literary  person,  this  brilliant  yonng  scholar  :  but, 
belonging  to  a  universal  age,  universality  -was  ali-o 
hers.  With  the  literary  she  eould  show  herself 
well-read  ;  with  the  purely  pleasure-seeking  she 
could  also  find  sympathy.  In  tliese  times  of 
mixed  circles,  men  and  women  must  needs  be 
able  to  talk  upon  many  subjects,  whether  they 
know  aught  about  them  or  nothing. 

Brenda  Gilholme  was  not.  however,  a  brilliant 
talker.  She  could  have  written  well  had  she  been 
moved  thereto  by  that  restless  spirit  which  makes 
some  people  look  upon  existence  as  a  blank  with- 
out pens  and  paper.  But  as  yet  she  was  content 
to  read,  and  her  young  mind  thirsted  f(n'  the 
grasp  of  other  folks'  thoughts  as  a  fisiierman's 
lingers  itch  for  the  rod. 

During  the  last  week  Alice  Huston's  preeeiieo 
in  Mrs.  Wylie's  household  had  not  been  an  un- 
mixed success.  There  was  a  slight  and  almost 
imperceptible  impatience  hi  the  widow's  manner, 
ill   the  inflection  of    her  pleasant    voice,  in    her 


TO  THE  FRONT.  179 

very  glance  when  her  eyes  rested  upon  her  guest's 
graciouH  form.  Gradually  the  story  had  come 
out,  and  some  details  were  related  with  unguarded 
carelessness,  resulting  in  the  conclusion,  as  far 
as  Mrs.  Wylie  and  Brenda  were  concerned,  that 
Captain  Huston  might  also  have  a  story  to  tell, 
differing  in  tone  and  purport  from  that  related 
by  his  wronged  spouse.  Her  case  against  her 
husband  was  not  very  clear,  and  in  her  relation  of 
it  there  w^as  in  some  vague  way  a  sense  of  suppres- 
sion and  easy  adaptation  both  pointing  to  the  same 
end.  If  Brenda  felt  this  and  drew  her  own  con- 
clusions from  it,  she  allowed  no  sign  of  such  con- 
clusions to  appear,  but  accepted  the  situation 
without  comment.  The  natural  result  of  this  un- 
feminine  behavior  was  a  wane  of  confidence  be- 
tween the  sisters.  It  is  easy  enough,  even  for  the 
most  reticent  person,  to  make  known  to  some 
chosen  familiar  certain  details  hitherto  suppressed 
when  once  the  subject  is  broached  ;  but  to  con- 
tinue confiding  in  a  bosom  friend  who  accepts  all 
statements  without  surprise,  horror  or  sympathy 
is  a  different  matter. 

Breuda's  manner  of  listening  was  neither  for- 
bidding nor  indifferent.  It  was  merelv  unenthu- 
siastic,  and  its  chief  characteristic  was  a  certain 
measured  attention,  as  if  the  details  were  im- 
printing themselves  indelibly  upon  a  prepared 
mental  surface,  Avhere  they  might  well  remain  in- 
tact and  legible  for  many  years.  Mrs.  Wylie, 
glancing  at  the  two  sisters  over  her  book,  or  her 
palm-leaf  screen,  conceived  a  strange  thought. 
She  imagined  that  she  detected  in  Brenda's  man- 
ner and  demeanor  a  certain  subtle  resemblance  to 
the  manner  and  demeanor  of  one  who  was  far 
ftway,  and  whose  influence  upon  the  girl's   life 


i8o  SUSPENSE. 

could  not  well  have  been  very  great,  namely,  Theo- 
dore Trist. 

When  the  war-correspondent  was  not  on  active 
service,  he  lived  in  London,  and,  as  was  only 
natural  to  one  of  liis  calling,  moved  in  such  in- 
tervals in  a  circle  of  men  and  women  influential 
in  the  political  world.  lie  was  a  reticent  speaker, 
but  an  excellent  listener,  and  Mrs.  Wylie,  as  the 
wife  of  an  active  naval  politician,  had  many  op- 
l)ortunities  of  watching  in  her  placid  way  this 
strange  young  man  among  his  fellows.  Theodore 
Trist's  chief  fault  was,  in  her  eyes  a  lack  of  enthu- 
siasm. He  waited  too  patiently  on  the  course  of 
events,  and  moved  too  guardedly  when  he  moved 
at  all.  It  was  a  very  womanly  view  of  a  man's 
conduct,  and  one  held,  I  think,  by  nineteen  out 
of  twenty  mothers  who  have  brought  brilliant 
sons  into  the  world. 

These  characteristics  the  widow  now  began  to 
see  develo}ung  subtly  in  the  soul  of  Brenda  Oil- 
holme,  and  a  keen  study  of  the  girl  during  this 
trying  time  only  confirmed  her  suspicions.  She 
began  to  feel  nervously  sure  that  the  compan- 
ionship of  Mrs.  Huston  was  bad  for  her,  and  with 
this  knowledge  to  urge  her  she  calmly  forced  her 
way  in  between  the  two  sisters. 

If  Brenda  lacked  enthusiasm  (which  failure  is 
characteristic  of  this  calculating  and  practical 
generation),  she  atoned  for  the  want  by  a  won- 
drous steadfastness.  By  word,  and  deed,  and 
silence,  she  demonstrated  continuously  her  inten- 
tion to  stand  by  her  sister  and  do  for  her  all  that 
lay  in  her  power.  In  this  spirit  of  dumb  devotion 
Mrs.  Wylie  was  pleased  to  see  a  suggestion  of 
Theo  Trist's  soldierly  obedience  to  the  call  of 
duty  iu  which  there  was  no  question  of  personal 


TO  THE  FRONT,  i8r 

inclination.  She  mcW  have  been  right.  Women 
see  deeper  into,  these  subtle  human  influences 
than  men.  There  are  many  small  powers  at  work 
in  every-day  life,  guiding  our  social  barque,  with- 
holding us  or  urging  us  on,  dictating,  command- 
ing, approving,  or  disapproving  ;  and  tlie  motive 
of  these  is  woman's  will.  The  eye  that  guides  is 
a  woman's  heart ;  the  brake  that  checks  is  a  wo- 
man's instinct.  Mrs.  Wylie  was  probably,  there- 
fore, quite  right  in  her  supposition  ;  for  it  is  such 
men  as  Theo  Trist  who  leave  the  impress  of  their 
individuality  upon  those  who  come  in  contact 
with  them — men  who  speak  little  and  listen  well, 
who  think  deeply  and  never  speak  of  their 
thoughts.  It  is  not  your  talkative  man  with  a 
theory  for  every  emergency,  with  a  most  wonder- 
ful and  universal  knowledge,  who  rules  the  world. 
The  influence  of  these  is  comparatively  small. 
Their  experience  is  too  vast  to  be  personal,  and  thus 
loses  weight.  Their  theories  are  too  indefinite,  too 
sweeping,  and  too  general  for  practical  application 
to  human  affairs,  which  are  things  not  to  be  gen- 
erally treated  at  all,  "We  are  a  sheepish  genera- 
tion. Our  thoughts  are  held  in  common  :  we 
theorize  in  crowds  and  hold  principles  in  a  multi- 
tude, but  God's  grand  individuality  is  not  dead 
yet.  It  lives  somewhere  iji  our  hearts,  and  at 
strange  odd  moments  we  still  act  unaccountably, 
according  to  the  dictates  of  that  enfeebled  organ. 
There  is  a  subtle  difference  between  the  male  and 
female  intellects  respecting  anxiety.  Most  wo- 
men can  conceal  it  better  than  their  brothers  and 
husbands  when  the  necessity  for  concealment 
arises,  but  they  suffer  no  less  on  that  account. 
In  fact  the  weight  of  it  is  greater  and  more  wear- 
ing, because  in  solitude  they  brood  over  it  more 


iSjr  SUSPENSE. 

than  men.  They  have  not  the  same  power  of 
laving  it  aside  and  taking  up  a  book  or  occnpatiou 
with  the  deliberate  intention  of  courting  aosorp- 
tion,  as  possessed  by  us. 

Brenda  was  apparently  immersed  in  the  pages 
of  an  intellectual  monthly  review,  but  at  times 
her  sweet  innocent  eyes  wandered  from  the  lines 
and  rested  meditatively  on  the  glowing  fire.  Tlie 
girl  was  restless.  She  moved  each  time  she  turned 
a  page,  glancing  sometimes  at  the  small  clock  on 
the  mantelpiece,  sometimes  toward  the  window, 
whence  an  ever-waning  light  fell  gloomily  upon 
her. 

There  w«as  in  her  soul  a  vague  sense  of  discom- 
fort, which  was  as  near  an  approach  to  imagina- 
tive anxiety  as  her  strong  nature  could  compass  ; 
and  to  this  she  was  gradually  giving  way.  Her 
interest  in  the  magazine  upon  her  lap  had  never 
been  else  than  perfunctory,  and  now  she  could  not 
take  in  the  meaning  of  the  carefully  rounded  and 
somewhat  affected  phrases. 

Alice  Huston  had  been  a  week  in  Mrs.  Wylie's 
chambers,  and  there  was  no  positive  reason  now 
to  suppose  that  her  husband  was  not  in  London. 
But  the  beautiful  woman  possessed  little  sense  of 
responsibility  and  none  of  consideration  for  others. 
She  simply  refused  to  leave  town  until  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  because,  she  argued,  the  souml  of 
wheels,  the  gay  whirl  of  life,  was  so  intensely  re- 
freshing to  her.  Mrs.  Wylie  would  scarcely  in- 
terfere, because  she  was  not  quite  certain  that 
Captain  Huston  was  unfit  to  take  care  of  his  wife. 
She  could  not  decide  whether  it  was  better  to 
keep  them  apart  or  to  allow  Alice  to  run  into  the 
danger  of  being  followed  and  claimed  by  her  hus- 
band.    The  widow  had  verv  successfully  followed 


TO  TkE  FROS't.  1S3 

a  placid  principle  of  non-interfereuce  all  through 
lior  life,  and  now  she  applied  it  to  the  calaniitou-s 
atfairs  of  Captain  and  Mrs.  Huston.  She  recog- 
nized very  clearly  that  the  man  had  made  as  evil 
a  bargain  as  the  woman.  In  both  there  was  good 
material,  capable  of  being  wrought  into  good  re- 
sults by  advantageous  circumstances.  The  cir- 
cumstances of  their  coming  together  and  contract- 
ing a  life-long  alliance  was  disadvantageous  to 
the  last  degree,  voila  tout.  It  was  a  matter  for 
themselves  to  settle.  There  are  some  people  who, 
in  a  crisis,  form  themselves  into  a  reserve — not 
necessarily  out  of  range,  but  beyond  the  din  and 
confusion  of  the  melee  :  of  these  was  Mrs.  "Wylie. 
If  necessity  demanded  it,  she  was  capable  of  lead- 
ing an  assault  or  withstanding  an  attack,  but 
as  a  clear-headed,  watchful  commander  of  reserves 
.she  was  incomparable. 

Brenda  knew  this.  She  had  an  analytical  way 
of  studying  such  persons  as  influenced  her  daily 
life,  and  in  most  cases  she  arrived  at  a  very  ac- 
curate result.  That  Mrs.  Wylie  was  watching 
events,  but  would  not  influence  them,  she  was 
well  aware,  and,  moreover,  she  now  felt  that  some 
one  was  needed  who  would  calmly  step  to  the 
front  and  act  with  a  bold  acceptance  of  responsi- 
liilitv.  That  she  herself  wa.<  the  person  to  take 
ill  is  position  seemed  undeniable.  There  could 
bo  no  one  else.  No  other  could  he  expected  to 
assume  the  task. 

lint  there  was  another,  and  Brenda  would  not 
eonfes-,  even  indefinitely  in  her  own  thoughts, 
that  she  knew  it. 

At  length  she  laid  her  book  down,  and  sat  gaz- 
ing softly  into  t!ie  fire.  When  the  bell  rang  at 
the  end  of  the   long  passage  beside  tlie  kitcheu 


iil4  sUSPEA/sJl. 

door,  she  never  moved.  When  the  maid  opened 
the  drawing-room  door,  with  the  mumbled  an- 
nouncement of  a  name  to  whose  possessor  no  door 
of  Mrs,  AVylie's  was  ever  shut,  Brenda  failed  to 
hear  the  name,  and  lialf  turned  her  liead  without 
much  welcome  in  her  eyes. 

.She  was  preparing  to  rise  politely  from  her  seat 
when  a  dark  form  passed  between  the  window  and 
herself.  There,  upon  the  hearthrug,  within  touch 
of  her  black  skirt,  stood  Theo  Trist  I  Theo — 
quiet,  unemotional,  strong  iis  ever  ;  Theo — with  a 
brown  face,  and  his  bland,  high  forehead  divided 
into  two  portions  of  white  and  of  mahogany, 
Avhere  the  fez  had  rested,  keeping  off  tlie  burning 
sun,  but  casting  no  shadow  ;  Theo — to  the  fore, 
as  usual,  in  his  calm,  reliable  individuality,  just 
at  the  moment  when  ho  was  required. 

Brenda  gave  a  little  gasp,  ami  the  eyes  that  met 
his,  were,  for  a  second,  contracted  with  some  quick 
emotion,  which  he  thought  was  fear, 

"  Theo  !  "  sheexclainied,  "Theo  ! "  Then  she 
stopped  short,  checking  herself  suddenly,  and  as 
she  rose  he  saw  the  frightened  look  in  her  eyes 
again. 

They  shook  hands,  and  for  a  brief  moment 
neither  seemed  able  to  frame  a  syllable.  Brenda's 
li])s  were  dry,  and  her  throat  was  parched — all  in 
a  second. 

He  looked  round  the  room  as  if  seeking  some  * 
one,  or  the  indication  of  a  presence,  such  as  a 
work-basket,  a  well-known  book,  or  some  similar 
token.  Brenda  concluded  that  he  was  wondering 
where  Mrs.  Wylie  might  be,  and  suddenly  she 
found  power  to  speak  in  a  steady,  even  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Wylie  is  out  !"  she  said.  *'  I  expect  her 
in  by  tea-time." 


TO  THE  FKOXT.  iSg 

He  nodded  his  head — indicated  the  chair  which 
she  had  just  left — and.  when  she  was  seated, 
knelt  down  on  the  hearthrug,  holding  his  two 
hands  to  the  fire. 

''  Where  is  Alice  ? "  he  asked,  in  a  peculiar 
monotone. 

"■  She  is  ont  with  Mrs.  Wylie Then  .  .  . 

you  know  ?  " 

''Yes,  Brenda,  1  know  I"  he  answered  gravely. 

The  girl  sat  forward  in  her  low  chair,  with  her 
two  arms  resting  upon  her  knees,  her  slim,  white 
hands  interlocked.  For  a  time  she  was  off  her 
guard,  forgetting  the  outward  composure  taught; 
in  the  school  of  which  she  was  so  apt  a  pupil. 
She  actually  allowed  herself  to  breathe  hurriedly, 
to  lean  forward,  and.  drink  in  with  her  eager  eyes 
the  man's  every  feature  and  every  movement.  He 
was  not  looking  toward  her,  but  of  her  fixed  gaze 
he  was  well  aware.  The  sound  of  her  quick  res- 
piration was  close  to  his  ear ;  her  soft,  warm 
breath  reached  his  cheek.  With  all  his  iron  com- 
posure, despite  his  cruel  hold  over  himself,  he 
wavered  for  a  mouient,  and  the  hands  held  out  to 
the  glow  of  the  fire  shook  perceptibly.  But  his 
meek  eyes  never  lost  their  settled  expression  of 
speculative  contemplation.  Whatever  other  men 
might  do,  whatever  women  might  suffer,  Theodore 
Trist  was  sufficient  for  himself.  The  flame  leapt 
np,  and  fell  again  Avith  a  little  bubbling  sound, 
glowing  ruddily  upon  the  two  faces.  He  remained 
quite  motionless,  quite  cold.  It  was  the  face  of 
the  great  Napoleon  again— inscrutable,  deep  be- 
yond the  depth  of  human  soundings,  cruel  and 
yet  sweet — but  the  high  forehead  seemed  to 
suggest  an  infinite  possibility  of  something  else  ; 
some  lack  of   energy,  or   some    great   negation, 


l86  SUSPEXSE. 

vliich  caiicoled  at  one  blow  ihe  rest'iublauce  tliat 
lay  in  lip  aiid  chin  and  prolilo. 

Presently  iJrenda  leant  back  in  the  chair, 
'I'here  was  a  screen  on  the  table  near  her — Mr.-*. 
Wylie's  ])alni-leai' — and  she  extended  her  hand  to 
take  it,  holding  it  subsecjuently  between  her  face 
and  the  fire,  so  that  if  Trist  had  turned  his  head 
he  could  not  have  seen  anything'  l)ut  her  slim, 
graceful  form,  her  white  hand  and  wrist,  and  the 
screen  glowing  rosily,  lie  did  not  turn,  however, 
when  he  spoke, 

'*  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "how  1  catne  to 
know," 

Before  continuing,  he  rubbed  his  hands  slowly 
together.  Then  he  rose  from  his  knees  and  re- 
mained standing  near  the  tire  close  to  her,  but 
without  looking  in  her  direction.  He  seemed  to 
be  choosing  his  words, 

"  I  came  home."  he  said  at  length.  "  from  (Gib- 
raltar in  an  Indian  steamer,  a  small  boat  with 
half  a  dozen  passengers.  There  was  no  doctor 
on  board.  One  evening  I  M-as  asked  to  go  for- 
ward and  look  at  a  second-class  jtassenger  who 
was    suffering    from    ,    .    .     from    delirium    tre- 


mens. " 


He  stopped  in  an  apologetic  way,  as  if  begging 
her  indulgence  for  the  use  of  those  two  words  in 
her  presence. 

"Yes  ..."  she  murmured  encouragingly. 

"It  was  Huston." 

As  he  spoke  he  turned  slightly,  aiul  glanced 
down  at  her.  She  had  entirely  regained  her  gen- 
tle composure  now,  and  the  color  had  returned  to 
her  face.  Her  attention  was  given  to  his  words 
with  a  certain  suppressed  anxiety,  but  no  surprise 
whatever. 


TO  ru£  FROATi:  df 

**  Did,"  she  asked  at  length — '*  did  he  recog- 
nize you?" 

•■•  No." 

'•And  he  never  knew,  and  does  not  know  now, 
that  you  were  on  board  ?  " 

It  would  seem  that  he  divined  her  thoughts,  de- 
tecting the  hidden  importance  of  her  question. 

*'  No,''  ho  answered  meaningly,  as  he  turned 
and  looked  down  at  her — "  no  ;  nut  he  has  not 
forgotten  my  existence." 

She  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  but  their  glance 
stopi)ed  short  suddenly  at  the  elevation  of  his  lips. 
It  was  only  by  an  effort  that  she  avoided  meeting 
his  gaze. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said  with  a  short  laugh, 
in  an  explanatory  way,  "  much  about  .  .  .  about 
it.  Is  it  like  ordinary  delirium,  where  people  talk 
in  a  broken  manner  without  realizing  what  they 
are  saying  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  rather  like  that." 

She  examined  the  texture  of  the  screen  with 
some  attention. 

'•'  Do  you  mind  telling  me,  Theo,"  she  asked  at 
longth  evenly,  '*  whether  he  mentioned  your 
name  ?  " 

Trist  reflected  for  a  moment.  He  moved  rest- 
lessly from  one  foot  to  the  other,  then  spoke  in 
n  voice  which  betrayed  no  emotion  beyond  regret 
and  :i  hesitating  sympathy. 

'•He  said  that  Alice  had  run  away  to  join  her 
old  lover — moaning  me." 

*'  Are  you  sure  he  meant  .   .   .  you  ?" 

"  He  mentioned  my  name  ;  there  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it." 

Brenda  rose  suddenly  from  her  seat  and  crossed 
the  room  toward  the  window.     There  she  Btood 


l88  SUSPENSE. 

with  her  back  toward  him,  a  graceful,  dark  sil- 
houette against  the  dying  light,  looking  into  the 
street. 

He  moved  slightly,  but  did  not  attempt  to  fol- 
low her. 

''  It  is  rather  strange,"  she  said  at  length,  '^  that 
the  first  utime  she  mentioned  on  landing  at  Ply- 
mouth should  be  yours." 

A  look  of  blank  surprise  flashed  across  his  face, 
and  then  he  reflected  gravely  for  some  moments. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  he  said,  slowly,  "be- 
cause it  would  seem  that  my  name  has  been  ban- 
died between  them,  and  if  that  is  the  case  my 
hands  are  tied.  1  cannot  help  Alice  as  I  should 
have  liked  to  do." 

"  I  told  Alice  some  time  ago  that  it  would  be 
much  better  for  us  to  manage  this  .  .  .  this  mis- 
erable affair  witliout  your  help." 

''  You  are  equal  to  it,"  he  said  deliberately. 

She  laughed  with  a  faint  gleam  of  her  habitual 
brightness. 

"  Thank  you.  Tluit  is  a  very  pretty  sentiment, 
but  it  is  hardly  the  question." 

"  My  help,"  he  continued,  "  need  not  be  ob- 
Yions  to  every  casual  observer.  But  T  am  not  go- 
ing to  leave  you  to  fight  this  out  alone,  Brenda. 
I  was  forced  to  leave  you  once,  and  I  am  not  go- 
ing to  do  it  again.  What  does  Mrs.  Wylie  say  to 
it  all  ?  " 

*'  Nothing  as  yet.     She  is  waiting  on  events." 

*'  Ah,  then,  she  is  in  reserve  as  usual.  When 
the  time  comes,  we  may  rely  upon  her  help.  But 
until  then  ..." 

"  Theo,"  interrupted  Brenda  in  an  agonized 
voice,  "  the  time  lias  come  !  " 

She  started  back  from  the  window,  her  face  as 


TO  THE  FRO^f.  1S9 

white  as  her  snowy  throat,  her  eyes  contracted 
with  horror. 

''He  is  there  !"  she  whispered  hoarsely,  point- 
ing toward  the  window — "'  in  the  street.  Coming 
into  the  house  !  " 

Her  little  hands  clutched  his  sleeve  with  a 
womanly  abandonment  of  restraint,  and  he  stood 
quite  still  in  his  self-reliant  manhood.  Then  he 
found  with  surprise  that  his  right  arm  was  round 
her  shoulders  protecting  her. 

"  Come,"  he  said  with  singular  calmness — 
*'  come  into  another  room.     I  will  see  him  here." 

As  he  spoke  he  gently  urged  her  toward  the 
door,  but  she  resisted,  and  foi-  a  moment  there 
was  an  actual  pliysical  struggle. 

"  No,"  she  said,  '•'  I  will  see  him.  It  is  better. 
Alice  may  come  in  at  any  moment,  and  before  then 
I  must  know  how  matters  stand  between  them." 

Trist  hesitated,  and  at  that  moment  the  bell 
rang.  They  stood  side  by  side  looking  at  the 
closed  door,  listening  painfully. 

''  Perliaps,"  whispered  Trist,  "  the  maid  will 
say  that  Mrs.  Wylie  is  out." 

They  could  hear  the  light  footstep  of  the  serv- 
ant, then  the  click  of  the  latch. 

A  murmur  of  words  followed,  ending  in  the 
raised  tone  of  a  male  voice  and  a  short  sharp 
exclamation  of  fear  from  the  maid. 

Instinctively  Trist  sprang  toward  the  door. 

There  was  a  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  in  the 
passage.  Trist's  fingers  were  on  the  handle.  He 
glanced  toward  Brenda  appealingly. 

"  Leave  it  ! "  she  exclaimed.  '"  Let  him  come 
in." 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  her  lips  the  door 
was  thrown  open  concealing  Theodore  Trist. 


i<)0  SUSP  EASE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

UKDER    FIRE. 

A  TALL,  well-built  man  entered  the  room  hur- 
riedly and  stopped  short,  facing  Brenda,  who  met 
his  gaze  with  gentle  self-possession. 

"Ah  I"  he  muttered  in  a  thick  voice,  and  his 
unsteady  hand  went  to  his  long  fair  mustach.e. 

It  was  a  terribly  unhealthy  face  upon  which 
Breuda's  eyes  rested  inquiringly.  The  skin  wns 
cracked  in  places,  and  the  cheeks  were  almost 
blue.  The  eyelids  wore  red  and  the  eyes  blood- 
shot, while  there  was  a  general  suggestion  of  puf- 
finess  and  discomfort  in  the  swollen  features. 
The  man  was  distinctly  repulsive,  and  yet,  with  a 
small  amount  of  tolerance,  he  was  a  figure  to  de- 
mand pity.  Despite  his  dissipated  air  there  was 
that  indefinite  sense  of  refinement  which  belongs 
to  birth  and  breeding,  and  which  never  leaves  a 
man  who  has  once  moved  among  gentlemen. 
There  was  even  a  faint  suggestion  of  military 
vanity  in  his  dress  and  carriage,  though  his  figure 
was  by  no  means  so  smart  as  it  must  have  been  in 
bygone  days. 

The  room  was  rather  dark,  and  lie  glanced 
round,  failing  to  see  Theo  Trist,  who  Avas  leaning 
against  the  wall  behind  him. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  repeated  ;  '•'  Brenda.  I  suppose  you 
are  in  it,  too  I" 

She  made  no  reply,  but  stood  before  him  in  all 


UXDEK  FINE.  19 1 

I'.ev  maidenly  sweetness  and  stven,!i:tli.  looking  into 
jiis  face  throuyh  the  twilight  with  clear  and  steadv 
eyes  which  he  liesitated  to  meet.  Into  his  weak 
ijoul  a  flood  of  bitter  memories  rushed  tumultu- 
ously — memories  of  a  time  when  he  could  meet 
those  eyes  without  that  sudden  feeling  of  self- 
hatred  which  was  gnawing  at  his  heart  now.  His 
tdue  was  not  harsh  nor  violent,  but  there  was  au 
underaote  of  determination  which  was  not  pleas- 
ant to  the  ear. 

*'Tell  me,"  he  continued  thickl}-,  "where  my 
■wife  is  to  be  found." 

Trist  noticed  that  she  never  took  lier  eyes  off 
Huston's  face,  never  glanced  past  the  sleek, 
closely-cropped  head  toward  himself.  In  some 
subtle  way  her  wish  was  conveyed  to  him — the 
wish  that  he  should  remain  there  and  continue,  if 
possible,  to  be  unnoticed  by  Huston.  This  he  did, 
leaning  squarely  against  Ihe  wall,  his  meek  eyes 
riveted  on  the  girl's  face  with  a  calm,  expectant 
attention.  From  his  presence  Brenda  gathered 
that  strength  and  self-reliance  which,,  I  think, 
God  intends  women  to  gather  from  the  compan- 
ionship of  men. 

"  No,  Alfred,"  she  answered,  using  his  Chris- 
tian name  with  a  gentle  diplomacy  which  made 
him  waver  for  a  moment  and  sway  backward  upon 
his  rigid  legs  :   ''I  must  not  tell  you  that  yet." 

"•  What  right  have  you  to  withhold  it  ?'' 

'•'  She  is  my  sister.  I  must  do  the  best  I  can 
for  her." 

He  laughed  in  an  unpleasant  way. 

"  By  throwing  her  into  the  path  of  the  man  she 
lias  always " 

•'Stop  !"  commanded  Brenda. 

"'Why  ?     Why  should  I  stop  ?     I  suppose  Trist 


192  SUSPEA^E. 

is  ill  England.     That  is  why  she  came  home,  no 
doubt." 

**  She  has  never  spoken  to  Theodore  Trist  since 
she  married  you.  Besides,  that  is  not  the  ques- 
tion. Tell  me  why  you  want  to  find  Alice.  W  liat 
do  you  propose  to  do  ?  "' 

"■  That  is  my  affair  ! "  he  muttered  roughly. 
"  You  have  no  business  to  stand  between  man 
and  wife.  If  you  persist  in  doing  so,  it  must  bo 
at  your  own  risk,  and  1  tell  you  plainly  that  you 
run  a  chance  of  being  roughlv  handled." 

As  ]](!  spoke  he  advanced  a  pace  menacingly. 
Still  she  never  betrayed  Trist's  presence  b}'  the 
merest  glance  in  his  direction.  He,  however, 
moved  slightly,  without  making  any  sound. 

Huston  looked  slowly  round  the  room  with 
bloodshot,  horrible  eyes. 

"Tell  me!"  he  hissed,  thrusting  forward  his 
face  so  that  she  drew  back — not  from  fear,  but  to 
avoid  a  faint  aroma  of  stale  cigar-smoke. 

"  No  !"  she  answered. 

''Denv  that  Trist  loved  Alice — if  vou  dare  !" 
he  continued,  in  the  same  whistling  voice. 

Still  she  never  called  for  Trist's  assistance.  She 
was  very  pale,  and  the  last  words  seemed  to  strike 
her  in  the  face  as  a  blow. 

''  I  deny  nothing  I  " 

''Tell  me,"  he  shouted  hoarselv,  "  where  Alice 
is  : " 

'•  Xo  : " 

''Then  take  that,  you  .  .  .'" 

He  struck  her  with  his  clenched  fist  on  the 
shoulder — but  she  had  seen  his  intention,  and  by 
stepping  back  avoided  the  full  force  of  the  blow. 
She  staggered  a  pace  or  two  and  recovered  her- 
self. 


UNDER  FIRE. 


193 


Witliont  a  sound  Trist  spraug  forward,,  and  the 
same  instant  saw  Huston  fall  to  the  ground.  He 
rolled  over  and  over,  a  shapeless  mass  with  limbs 
distended.  As  he  rolled.  Trist  kicked  him  as  he 
never  would  have  kicked  a  dog. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  h  .  .  h  .  .  ! "  shrieked  the  soldier. 
"  AVho  is  that  ?  " 

''  It  is  Trist  .   .   .  you  brute!" 

But  Huston  lay  motionless,  with  limp  hands 
and  ojjen  mouth.     He  was  insensible. 

Leaving  him.  Trist  turned  to  Brenda,  who  was 
already  holding  him  back  with  a  physical  force 
which  even  at  that  moment  caused  him  a  vague 
surprise. 

*'Theo!  Theol"  she  cried,  'Mvhat  are  you 
doing  ?" 

He  looked  into  her  face  sharply,  almost  fiercely 
— and  she  caught  her  breath  convulsively  at  the 
sight  of  his  eyes.  They  literally  hashed  with  a  dull 
blue  gleam,  which  was  all  the  more  ghastly  in  so" 
calm  a  face  ;  for  though  he  was  ashen-gray  in  color, 
his  features  were  unaltered  by  any  sign  of  passion. 
Even  in  his  wild  rage  this  man  was  incongru- 
ous. 

"  Has  he  hurt  you  ?  "'  he  asked  in  a  dull,  hol- 
low voice  ;  and,  while  he  spoke,  his  fingers  skill- 
fully touched  her  shoulder  in  a  quick,  searching 
way  never  learnt  in  drawing-rooms. 

'*  No — no  I  "  she  cried  impatiently.  ''  But  you 
have  killed  him  !  " 

She  broke  away  from  him  and  knelt  on  the 
floor,  bending  over  the  prostrate  form  of  the 
soldier.  Her  bosom  heaved  from  time  to  time 
with  a  bravely  suppressed  sob. 

''  Don't  touch  him,"  said  Trist,  in  an  uncon- 
seionslv  commanding  tone,     "  He's  ftll  right," 


194  SUSPENSE. 

Obediently,  she  rose  and  stepped  away,  -while 
he  lifted  the  limp  form,  and  placed  it  iu  a 
chair. 

Slowly  Captain  Huston  opened  his  eyes.  Ho 
heaved  a  deejJ  sigli,  and  sat  gazing  into  the  fire 
with  a  hoiieless  and  miserable  apathy.  Behind 
him  the  two  stood  motionless,  watching.  Pres- 
ently he  began  to  mutter  incoherently,  and  Brenda 
turned  away,  sickened,  from  the  woful  sight." 

''I  wonder,"  she  whispered,  **  if  this  sort  of 
thing  is  to  go  on." 

Trist's  mobile  lips  were  twisted  a  little  as  if  he 
were  in  bodily  pain,  while  he  glanced  at  her  fur- 
tively. There  was  nothing  for  him  to  say — no 
hope  to  hold  out. 

They  moved  away  to  the  window  together 
without  speaking,  both  occupied  with  thoughts 
which  could  not  well  have  been  pleasant.  Trist's 
features  wore  a  grave,  concentrated  expression, 
totally  unlike  the  philosophical  and  contemplative 
demeanor  which  he  usually  carried  in  the  face  of 
the  world.  There  was  food  enough  for  mental 
stones  to  grind,  and  he  was  not  a  man  to  take  the 
most  sanguine  view  of  affairs.  His  philosophy 
was  of  that  rare  school  which  is  not  solely  confined 
to  making  the  best  of  other  folk's  troubles.  His 
own  checks  and  difficulties  were  those  treated  phil- 
osophically ;  while  the  griefs  of  others — more  es- 
pecially, perhaps,  of  Alice  and  Brenda — caused 
him  an  exaggerated  anxiety.  It  has  been  the  ex- 
perience of  the  present  writer  that  women  are 
infinitely  better  fitted  to  stand  adversity  than  men. 
There  is  a  certain  brave  little  smile  which  our  less 
mobile  lips  can  never  frame.  But  Theodore  Trist 
had  lived  chiefly  among  men,  and  his  human 
specialty  waa  the   fighting  animal.      Ho  knew  a 


UNDER  FIRS. 


t9S 


soldier  as  few-  of  his  contemporaries  knew  him  ; 
but  of  sweet  woman-militant  he  was  somewhat 
ignorant. 

Perhaps  he  took  this  trouble  too  seriousl}'.  Of 
that  I  cannot  give  an  opinion,  for  we  all  have  an 
individual  way  of  getting  over  our  fences,  and  we 
never  learn  another.  Personally,  I  must  confess 
to  a  penchant  for  those  men  who  go  steadily, 
with  a  cool,  clear  head,  and  a  firm  hand,  realizing 
full  well  the  risk  they  are  about  to  run — men  who 
do  not  put  a  blind  faith  in  luck,  nor  look  invari- 
ably for  Fortune's  smiles. 

In  Trist's  place  many  wonld  have  uttered  some 
trite  consolatory  or  wildly  hopeful  remark,  which 
would  in  no  wise  have  deceived  a  young  person  of 
Brendu's  austere  discrimination.  In  this,  how- 
ever, he  fell  lamentably  short  of  his  duty.  After 
a  thoughtful  pause  he  merely  whispered  : 

*•  Here  we  are  again,  Brenda — in  a  tight  place. 
There  is  some  fatality  which  seems  to  guide  our 
footsteps  on  to  thorny  pathways.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  be  done  but  face  it." 

*' Is  it,"  she  asked  simply,  '*a  case  for  action, 
or  must  we  wait  upon  events  ?  " 

"I  would  suggest  .   .   .  action." 

''  Yes  ..."  she  said,  iu  a  little  more  than  a 
whisper,  after  a  pause,  ''I  think  so  too — more  es- 
pecially now  .  .  .  that  you  suggest  it.  Your 
natural  bias  is,  as  a  rule,  in  the  direction  of  mas- 
terly inactivity." 

He  smiled  slowly. 

"  Perhaps  .    .  .  so  ! " 

"  Therefore  your  conviction  that  action  is  neces- 
sary must  be  very  strong  before  you  would  suggest 
it." 

"  I  feel/'  he  said,  with  some  deliberation,  '•  that 


J  96  S(/SP£A'S£. 

it  will  be  better  to  keep  them  apart  in  the  meati- 


time." 


A  strange,  uneasy  look  passed  across  tlie  girl's 
face.  It  happened  that  there  was  only  one  mnn 
on  all  the  broad  earth  whom  she  trusted  implicitly 
• — the  Jiiuu  at  her  side — and  for  a  second  that  one 
unique  faith  wavered.  With  a  sort  of  mental  jerk 
— as  of  a  person  who  makes  a  quick  effort  to  re- 
cover a  wavering  balance — she  restored  her 
courageous  trustfulness. 

•"'  Yes,"  she  murmured,  "  I  am  sure  of  it.'* 

•*'  And  I  suppose  ...  I  suppose  we  must  doit. 
You  and  I,  Brenda  I '" 

It  was  a  wonderful  thing  how  these  two  knew 
Alice  Huston.  Her  faults  were  never  mentioned 
between  them.  The  infinite  charity  with  which 
each  looked  upon  these  faults  was  a  mutual  pos- 
session, nnhinted  at,  half  concealed.  Brenda 
knew  quite  well  what  was  written  between  the 
lines  of  his  outspoken  supposition,  and  replied  to 
his  unasked  question  with  simple  diplomacy. 

"Yes — we  must  do  it." 

Trist  moved  a  little.  He  turned  sidewa3's,  and 
glanced  out  of  the  window.  Ilis  attitude  was 
that  of  a  man  whose  hands  were  in  his  pockets,  but 
he  was  more  than  half  a  soldier — a  creature  mor- 
ally and  literally  without  pockets-  and  his  hands 
hung  at  his  sides. 

"It  is  a  .   .   .   a  pretty  strong  combination." 

She  smiled,  and  changed  color  so  .^lightly  that 
he  no  doubt  failed  to  see  it. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  cheerfully.  "It  suc- 
ceeded once  before.  But  j\lrs.  Wylie  is  not  quite 
herself  yet,  Theo  !  That  is  why  l  don't  want  her 
to  have  any  trouble  in  this  nnitter.  We  have  no 
right  to  seek  her  aid." 


UNDER  FIRB.  197 

The  last  words  might  easily  have  passed  un- 
heeded, but  Brenda  felt,  even  as  she  spoke  them, 
that  they  contained  another  meaning  ;  moreover, 
she  recognized  by  liis  sudden  silence  that  Trist 
was  wondering  whether  tliis  second  suggestion  had 
been  intended.  Uneasily  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
his  face.  He  was  looking  down  at  her  gravely, 
and  for  some  seconds  their  glances  met. 

If  an  excuse  to  seek  Mrs.  Wylie's  assistance 
was  hard  to  find,  much  more  so  was  it  open  to 
question  respecting  Trist's  spontaneous  help. 
Why  should  he  offer  it  ?  By  what  right  could  she 
accept  it  ?  And  while  they  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes,  these  two  wondered  over  those  small 
questions.  There  was  a  reason — the  best  reason 
of  all — namely,  that  the  offer  was  as  spontaneous 
and  natural  as  the  acceptance  of  it.  But  why — 
why  this  spontaneity  ?  Perhaps  they  both  knew. 
Perhaps  she  suspected,  and  suspected  wrongly. 
Perhaps  neither  knew  definitely. 

At  last  she  turned  her  head,  and  naturally 
her  glance  was  directed  downward  into  Picca- 
dilly. 

*'  There  they  are,"  she  whispered  hurriedly, 
*•'  looking  into  the  jeweler's  shop  opposite.  What 
are  we  to  do,  Theo  ?  " 

He  almost  forestalled  her  question,  so  rapid  was 
his  answer.  There  was  no  hesitation,  no  shirking 
of  responsibility.  She  had  simply  asked  him,  and 
simply  he  replied. 

'*  Go,"  he  said,  ''and  throw  some  things  into  a 
bag.  I  will  stay  here  and  watch  liim.  When  the 
bug  is  ready,  leave  it  in  the  passage  and  come  back 
here.  1  will  take  it,  go  down,  and  take  her  straight 
away." 

'•Where?'' 


igg  SaSPEA'SE. 

**1  don't  know,"  he  replied,  with  a  shrug  of 
the  shoulders. 

There  was  a  momentary  hesitation  on  the  girl's 
part.  She  perceived  a  terrible  flaw  in  Trist's 
plan,  and  he  divined  hor  tlioughts. 

'*  It  will  be  all  right,"  he  whispered.  "  No  one 
knows  that  I  am  in  England.  I  will  telegraph 
to-night,  and  you  can  join  hor  to-morrow.  You 
.  .  .  can  trust  me,  Brenda." 

There  was  a  faint  smile  of  confidence  on  her 
face  as  she  turned  away  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

Although  her  light  footsteps  were  almost  in- 
audible, tlie  slight  frolement  of  her  dress  seemed 
to  rouse  the  stupefied  man  on  the  low  chair  near 
the  fire.  Perhaps  there  was  in  the  rhythm  of  her 
movements  some  subtle  resemblance  to  the  move- 
ments of  his  wife.  He  raised  his  head  and  appeared 
to  listen  in  an  apathetic  way,  but  ])resently  iiis  chin 
dropped  heavily  again  upon  his  breast,  and  the  dull 
eyes  lost  all  light  of  intelligence. 

Trist  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
The  two  ladies  were  still  lingering  near  the  jewel- 
er's shop.  Alice  Huston  appeared  to  be  pointing 
out  to  her  companion  some  specially  attractive 
ornament,  and  Mrs.  Wylie  was  obeying  with  a 
patient  smile. 

The  war-correspondent  smiled  in  a  peculiar  way, 
which  might  well  have  expressed  some  bitterness, 
had  he  been  the  sort  of  man  to  speak  or  think 
bitterly  of  any  one.  The  whole  picture  was  so 
absurdly  characteristic,  even  to  the  small  details 
— such  as  Mrs.  Wylie's  good-natured  patience, 
scarce  concealing  her  utter  lack  of  interest  in  the 
jewelry,  and  Alice  Huston's  eyes  glittering  with 
reflex  of  the  cold  gleam  of  diamonds  ;  for  there  is 


TKIST  ACTS  ON  HIS  O fPW RESPONSIBILITY. 


199 


a  light  that  comes  into  the  eyes  of  some  women  at 
the  mere  mention  of  precious  stones. 

While  he  was  watching  them  the  ladies  turned 
and  crossed  the  street,  coming  toward  him.  He 
stepped  back  from  the  window  in  case  one  of 
them  should  raise  Iser  eyes,  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment Brenda  entered  the  room. 

She  glanced  toward  Huston,  who  was  ronsing 
himself  from  the  torpor  which  had  followed  his 
maltreatment  at  Trist's  hands,  and  which  was 
doubtless  partly  due  to  the  drink-sodden  condition 
of  his  mind  and  body. 

*•  All  I  want,"  whispered  the  war-correspondent, 
following  her  glance,  "is  three  minutes'  start 
from  that  man." 

"  You  had  better  go  !  "  she  answered  anxiously 
below  her  breath. 

"Yes;  they  are  on  the  stairs  .   .   .  but  .   .   . 
tell  me,  Brenda,  promise  me  on  your  honor,  that 
he  did  not  hurt  you." 

"  I  promise  you,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile. 

Then  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TRIST   ACTS   OlsT   HIS   OWN"   RESPONSIBILITY. 

As  Mrs.  "VVylie  made  her  way  slowly  and  peace- 
fully np  the  broad  stairs,  she  suddenly  found 
herself  face  to  face  with  the  man  whom  she  had 
last  seen  in  the  still  Arctic  dawn,  bearing  the 
body  of  her  dead  husband   down  over  the  rocks 


200  SUSPEA'SE. 

toward  her.  She  gave  a  little  gasp  of  surprise, 
but  nothing  more.  The  next  instant  she  was 
holding  out  her  gloved  hand  to  greet  him.  But 
even  she — practised,  gifted  woman  of  the  world 
as  she  was — could  not  meet  him  with  a  smile.  In 
gravity  they  had  parted,  gravely  they  now  met 
again.  He  was  not  quite  the  same  as  other  men 
to  Mrs.  Wylie,  for  there  was  the  remembrance  of 
an  indefinite  semi-bantering  agreement  made 
months  before,  while  the  sunshine  of  life  seemed 
to  be  glowing  round  them  both — an  agreement 
that  they  should  not  be  mere  acquaintances,  mere 
friends  (although  the  friendship  existing  between 
an  elderly  woman  and  a  young  man  is  not  of  the 
ordinary,  practical,  every-day  type — there  is  a 
suggestion  of  something  more  in  it),  and  Trist  had 
fulfilled  the  promise  then  given. 

He  had  taken  her  quite  unawares,  with  that 
noiseless  footstep  of  his  which  we  noticed  before, 
and  the  color  left  her  face  for  a  moment. 

"You!"  she  exclaimed;  ''I  did  not  expect 
yon.'' 

As  he  took  her  hand  his  all-seeing  gaze  detected 
a  slight  indication  of  anxiety,  and  he  knew  that 
his  presence  was  not  at  that  moment  desired  by 
Mrs.  AVylie.  Due  credit  is  not  always  given  to  us 
men  for  the  possession  of  eyes.  Our  womenfolk 
are  apt  to  forget  that  we  move  just  as  much  as 
they,  and  in  most  cases  infinitely  more  in  the 
Avorld,  and  among  the  world's  shoals  and  quick- 
sands. We  may  not  be  so  quick  at  reading  super- 
ficial indications  as  our  mothers,  sisters,  or  wives  ; 
but  I  think  many  of  us  (while  keeping  vanity  in 
bounds)  are  much  more  capable  of  perceiving 
when  our  presence  is  desired  or  distasteful  than 
is  usually  supposed,     There  ar^  some  of  us,  me- 


TRIST  A  C  TS  OA'  tITS  O  !Vy  RESPOA'SlBILITY.  .' o  i 

thinks,  who,  if  chivah-y  failed  to  withhohl  our 
tougues,  could  tell  of  very  decided  preferences 
showu,  and  shown  unsought ;  of  glances,  and 
even  words,  advanced  to  guide  us  whither  the 
water  runs  smoothly.  And  let  us  hope  that  if 
such  have  been  the  case,  we  turn  to  the  rougher 
channel  we  love  better,  without  a  smile  of  self- 
conceit. 

Twice  within  the  last  hour  Theodore  Trist  had 
perceived  that  there  was  a  reason  why  those  who 
held  Alice  Huston  dearest  should  desire  that  he 
avoided  meeting  her.  What  this  reason  was  her 
own  husband  had  unwittingly  told  him  ;  confirm- 
ing brutally  what  ho  had  read  in  Brenda's  un- 
consciously expressive  face  a  few  moments  before. 
x\.nd  yet,  in  face  of  this  undoubted  knowledge,  he 
seemed  deliberately  to  court  the  danger  that  the 
two  women  feared,  and  sought  to  avert. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  be  blinded  by  a  false  im- 
pression. Xor  was  he  one  of  those  who  act  im- 
pulsively. His  mind  was  of  too  practical,  too 
steady,  and  too  concentrated  a  type  to  be  suddenly 
conquered  by  a  mere  prompting  of  the  heart.  At 
this  juncture  of  his  life  he  acted  coolly  and  with 
foresight.  Of  Alice  Huston  he  knew  enough  to  feel 
quite  sure  of  his  mastery  over  her.  If  she  loved 
liiiu  (which  supposition  had  been  thrown  in  his 
face  many  times  since  the  evening  when  he  had 
first  been  called  upon  to  give  assistance  to  those 
who  stood  in  Captain  Huston's  little  cabin),  he 
did  not  appear  in  the  least  afraid  of  his  own  capa- 
bility of  killing  that  love. 

He  turned  from  Mrs.  Wylie  and  greeted  the 
younger  woman,  who  followed  her,  with  a  self- 
possessed  smile  ;  and  from  his  manner  even  Mrs. 
Wylie  conld  gather  nothing,  and  she  was  no  meaa 


363  SUSPEXSK. 

reader  of  human  faces.  She  glanced  at  them  as 
thev  stf)od  to;:^ether  on  the  stairs  and  asked  her- 
self  a  ouestion  : 

"  What  part  is  he  playing,  that  of  a  scoundrel 
or  a  fool  ?  " 

She  could  not  conceive  a  third  alternative  just 
then,  because  she  did  not  know  Alice  Huston  so 
well  as  Tlieo  Trist  knew  her. 

Before  Mrs,  Huston,  who  was  blushing  very 
prettily,  had  time  to  speak,  Trist  imparted  his 
news  with  a  certain  rapid  blnnincss. 

'•'  Your  husband  is  up-stairs, "  he  said.  "  Brenda 
will  keep  him  in  the  drawing-room  for  a  few  min- 
utes. I  have  a  bag  here  with  some  necessaries  for 
you.  AVill  you  come  with  me,  or  will  yon  go  up- 
stairs to  your  husband  ?" 

"Will  ...  1  ...  go  with  you  ?"  stammered 
the  beautiful  woman  in  a  frightened  whisper. 
"  Where  to,  Theo  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wylie  leant  against  the  broad  balustrade 
and  breathed  rapidly.  She  was  really  alarmed, 
but  even  fear  could  not  conquer  her  indomitable 
placidity. 

''  I  will  conduct  you  to  a  safe  hiding-place  to- 
night and  Brenda  will  join  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," said  Trist  in  a  tone  full  of  concentrated 
energy,  though  his  eyes  never  lighted  up.  "  Be 
quick  and  decide,  because  J^renda  is  alone  up-stairs 
with  .   .   .   him." 

Mrs.  Wylie's  eyebrows  moved  imperceptibly 
beneath  her  veil.     She  thought  she  saw  light. 

ifrs.  Huston  played  nervously  with  a  tassel  that 
was  hanging  from  her  dainty  muff  for  the  space 
of  a  moment  ;  then  she  raised  her  eyes,  not  to 
Trist 's  face,  but  to  Mrs.  Wylie's.  Instantly  she 
lowered  them  again. 


TRJST  A  CTS  ON  HIS  O  W,V  RESPONSIBILITY.    3  03 

"  I  will  go  with  you  I"  siie  said,  almost  inan- 
dibly,  and  stood  blushing  like  a  schoolgirl  between 
two  lovers. 

Mrs.  Wylie  raised  her  head,  sniffing  danger  like 
an  old  hen  when  she  hears  the  swoop  of  long  wings 
above  the  chioken-yard.  Her  eyes  turned  from 
Alice  Huston's  face,  with  a  slow  impatience  al- 
most amounting  to  contempt,  and  rested  upon 
Theodore  Trist's  meek  orbs,  raised  to  meet  hers 
meaningly.  Then  somehow  her  honest  tongue 
found  itself  tied,  and  she  said  nothing  at  all.  The 
flood  of  angry  words  subsided  suddenly  from  her 
lips,  and  she  waited  for  the  further  commands  of 
this  soft-spoken,  soft-stepping,  soft-glancing  man, 
with  unquestioning  obedience. 

He  moved  slightly,  looked  down  at  the  bag  in 
his  hand,  and  then  glanced  comprehensively  from 
the  top  of  Mrs.  Huston's  smart  bonnet  to  the  sole 
of  her  small  shoe.  He  could  not  quite  lay  aside 
the  old  campaigner,  and  the  beautiful  woman  was 
moved  by  a  strange  suspicion  that  this  young  man 
was  not  admiring  her  person,  but  considering 
whether  her  attire  were  lit  for  a  long  journey  on 
a  November  evening. 

''Come,  then  !"  he  said. 

Still  Mrs.  Huston  hesitated. 

Suddenly  she  appera*ed  to  make  up  her  mind, 
for  she  went  up  two  steps  and  kissed  Mrs.  AVylie 
with  hysterical  warmth.  This  demonstration 
seemed  to  recall  Trist  to  a  due  sense  of  social  for- 
mula. He  returned,  and  shook  hands  gravely 
with  the  widow. 

*'  Go  to  Brenda  ! ''  he  whispered,  and  the  matron 
bowed  her  head. 

Again  she  raised  her  eyebrows,  and  there  was  a 
flicker  of  light  in  her  eyes  like  that  which  gleama 


2  04  SUSPENSE. 

momentarily  when  a.  person  is  on  the  brink  of  a 
great  discovery. 

The  next  minute  she  was  running  up-stairs,  wliilo 
the  footsteps  of  the  two  fugitives  died  away  in  the 
roar  of  traffic. 

"  Theo,"  she  said  to  herself,  while  awaiting  :ui 
answer  to  her  summons  at  her  own  door,  '*  must 
be  of  a  very  confiding  nature,  lie  expects  sucli 
utter  and  such  blind  faith  at  the  hands  of  others." 

The  maid  who  opened  the  door  was  all  eagerness 
to  impart  to  her  mistress  certain  vague  details  and 
incomprehensible  sounds  which  had  I'eached  her 
curious  ears.  She  had  a  thrilling  tale  of  how  Ca])- 
tain  Huston,  'Mookin'  that  funny  about  the  eyes," 
had  rung  loudly  and  pushed  roughly  through  the 
open  door  ;  how  there  had  been  loud  words  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  then  a  noise  like  *'  movin'  a 
pianer  :  "  how  a  silence  had  followed,  and,  finally, 
how  Mr.  Trist  (and  not  Captain  Huston,  as  might 
have  been  expected)  had  left  just  a  minute  ago. 
But  the  evening  milkman  was  destined,  after  all, 
to  receive  the  first  and  unabridged  account  of 
these  events.  Mrs.  Wylie  merely  said,  ''  That 
will  do,  Mary,"  in  her  unruffled  way,  and  passed 
on. 

She  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  found  Bren- 
da  standing  near  the  window,  with  one  Imnd  clasp- 
ing the  folds  of  the  curtain. 

Captain  Huston  was  sitting  on  a  low  chair  be- 
side the  fire,  weeping  gently.  His  bibulous  sobs 
were  the  only  sound  that  broke  an  unpleasant 
silence.  Brenda  was  engaged  in  adding  to  her 
experiences  of  men  and  their  ways  a  further  illus- 
tration tending  toward  contempt.  Her  eyes  were 
dull  with  pain,  but  she  carried  her  small  head 
with  the  usual  demure  serenity  which  was  naught 


TRIST  ACTS  ON  HIS  O  WN  RESPONSIBILITY.    305 

else  bnt  the  outcome  of  a  sweet,  maidenly  pride, 
as  she  advancecl  toward  Mrs.  Wylie. 

"He  is  quite  gentle  and  tractable  now  I "  she 
whispered. 

Mrs.  Wylie  took  her  hand  within  her  lingers, 
clasping  it  with  a  soft  protecting  strength. 

"Ishe  .  .  .  tipsy  ?" 

"  No  !  "  answered  Brenda,  with  a  peculiar  catch 
in  her  breath  ;  ''he  is  only  stupefied." 

*'  Stupefied  .  .  .  how  ? " 

"I  ...  I  will  tell  you  afterward." 

The  quick-witted  matron  had  already  discovered 
that  some  of  her  furniture  was  slightly  displaced, 
60  she  did  not  press  her  question. 

At  this  moment  Captain  Huston  rose  to  his  feet, 
and  took  up  a  position  on  the  hearthrug. 

''I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  with  concentrated 
calmness,  "Avhether  the  law  has  anything  to  say 
against  people  who  harbor  runaway  wives  ;  but, 
at  all  events,  society  will  have  an  opinion  on  the 
subject." 

He  ignored  the  fact  that  he  had  in  no  way 
greeted  Mrs.  Wylie,  addressing  his  remarks  to 
both  ladies  impartially.  By  both  alike  his  attack 
was  received  in  silence. 

''  1  will  find  her,"  he  continued.  "You  need 
have  no  false  hopes  on  that  score.  All  the  Theo- 
dore Trists  in  the  world  (which  is  saying  much— 
for  scoundrels  are  common  enough)  will  not  be 
able  to  hide  her  for  long  !  " 

Mrs.  Wylie  still  held  Brenda's  hand  withm  her 
own.  At  the  mention  of  Trist's  name  there  was 
an  involuntary  contraction  of  the  white  fingers, 
and  the  widow  suddenly  determined  to  act, 

"Captain  Huston,"  she  said  gravely,  "when 
you  are  calmer,  if  yoii,  wish  to  talk  of  t4n8  matter 


io6  SUSPENSE. 

again,  Brcnda  and  I  will  be  at  your  service.  At 
present  I  ara  convinced  that  it  is  better  for  your 
wife  to  keep  away  from  you — though  I  shall  be 
the  first  to  welcome  a  reconciliation." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  slowly 
to  the  door.  It  was  Brenda  who  rang  the  bell. 
Captain  Huston  passed  out  of  the  room  without 
another  word. 

It  would  almost  seem  that  the  ingenuous  Mary 
anticipated  the  call,  for  slie  was  waiting  in  the 
passage  to  show  Captain  Huston  out.  She  re- 
turned almost  at  once  to  the  drawing-room,  with 
a  view  (cloaked  beneath  a  prepared  question  re- 
specting tea)  of  satisfying  her  curiosity  regarding 
the  sound  which  had  suggested  the  moving  of  u 
"  pianer.'*'  But  there  was  no  sign  of  disorder  ; 
everything  was  in  its  place,  and  Brenda  was  stand- 
ing idly  near  the  mantel-piece. 

"  We  will  take  tea  at  once,  Mary,"  said  Mrs. 
Wylie,  unloosening  her  bonnet-strings. 

Mary  was  forced  to  retire,  meditating  as  she 
went  over  the  inscrutability  and  coldness  of  the 
ordinary  British  lady. 

'''  Ah  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Wylie,  when  the  door 
was  closed.  ''  Now  tell  me  Brenda  !  What  lias 
happened  ?  Did  these  two  men  meet  here  ?  I 
am  quite  in  the  dark,  and  have  a  sort  of  dazed 
feeling,  as  if  I  had  been  reading  Carlyle  at  the 
French  plays,  and  had  got  them  mixed  up." 

"  Theo  came  first,"  answered  Brenda,  '*'  to 
warn  us  that  Captain  Huston  had  come  home  in 
the  same  steamer  as  himself,  without,  however, 
recognizing  him.  While  we  were  talking,  the 
other  came  in.  He  did  not  see  Theo,  wlio  was 
behind  the  door   ..." 

'*  I  suppose  he  was  tipsy  ?  " 


I 


TRISTACTS  ON  HIS  on  y  RESPONSIBILITY.  -07 

'*  No;  he  was  quite  sober.  He  looked  horrible. 
His  eyes  were  bloodshot— his  lips  unsteady  .   .    ." 

Mrs.  Wylie  stopped  the  description  with  a  sharp 
aiuf  ul  nod  of  her  head.  To  our  shame  be  it,  my 
rothers,  she  knew  the  rest  ! 

"  Was  he  quite  clear  and  coherent  ?  " 

'^  Yes  !  " 

''But  .  .  .  just  now  .  .  ."  argued  Mrs.  Wylie, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  make  Brenda  resume  the 
narrative — '••'  just  now  he  was  quite  stupid  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  What  happened,  Brenda  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Mary  brought  in  the  tea  and 
set  it  briskly  down  on  a  small  table.  Brenda 
stepped  forward,  and  began  pouring  out. 

"What   happened,  Brenda  ?"    repeated   Mrs. 
Wylie,  when  the  door  was  closed. 

Then  she  approached,  took  the  teapot  from  her 
hand,  and  by  gentle  force  turned  the  motherless 
girl's  face  toward  herself. 

"  My  darling,"  she  whispered,  drawing  the  slim 
form  to  her  breast,  "  why  should  you  hide  your 
tears  from  me  ?  " 

I  have  endeavored  to  made  it  clear  that  this  girl 
was  not  an  emotional  being.  There  were  no  hys- 
terical sobs — merely  a  few  silent  tears,  and  the  nar- 
rative was  continued. 

"  He  came  in,  and  asked  me  to  tell  him  where 
Alice  was.     I  refused,  and  then  .  .  ." 

"  Then  .  .  .  ?  " 

"  He  tried  to  hit  me," 

"  Tried  .  .  .  Brenda  ?  " 

"  Well   ...  he  just  reached  me.*' 

"  And  .  .  .  Theo  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Wylie. 
*'WhatdidTheodo  ?" 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  both 


2o8  SdSPENSIi. 

hidies  iittended  to  their  cu])^  with  an  unnatural 
interest. 

''  I  have  never  seen  him  like  that  before,"  mur- 
mured the  girl  at  length.  ''  I  did  not  know  that 
men  were  ever  like  that.  It  was  .  .  .  rather  toiri- 
ble  .  .  .  almost  suggestive  of  some  wild  animal. 
He  knocked  him  down  and  .  .  .  and  kicked 
him  round  the  room  like  a  dog  I 

''  My  poor  darling,"'  whispered  Mrs.  Wylie. 
'•'  I  ought  never  to  have  left  you  here  alone.  \(o 
might  have  guessed  that  that  man  Huston  wi-uld 
he  home  soon.      Did  he  hurt  you.  Brenda  ?" 

''No;  he  frightened  me  a  little,  that  was 
all." 

''I  am  very  glad  you  had  Theo  !  "'  Mrs.  W'ylie 
purposely  turned  away  as  she  said  these  woids. 

Brenda  sii)ped  her  tea,  and  made  no  reply. 

It  had  heen  twilight  when  Mi'S.  "Wylie  veturn('<l 
home,  and  now  it  was  almost  dark.  The  h\o 
ladies  sat  in  the  warm  firelight,  with  their  feet 
iipon  the  fender.  Tea  laid  aside,  they  continued 
sitting  there  while  tlie  flames  leapt  and  fell  again, 
glowing  on  tiieir  thoughtful  faces,  gleaming  on 
the  simple  jewelry  at  their  throats.  From  the 
restless  streets  came  a  dull,  continuous  roar  as  of 
the  sea.  I  hear  it  now  as  I  write,  and  would  fain 
lay  aside  the  pen  and  wonder  over  it ;  for  it  rises 
and  falls,  swells  and  dies  again,  with  a  long,  slow, 
mournful  rhythm  full  of  life,  and  yet  joyless  ;  so- 
j)orilic,  andyet  alive  with  movement.  There  is  no 
sound  on  earth  like  it  except  the  hopeless  song  of 
breaking  waves.  Both  alike  steal  u|H)ii  the  senses 
with  an  indefinable  suggestion  of  duration,  almost 
amounting  to  a  glimmer  of  what  is  called  cternitv. 
Both  alike  reach  the  heart  with  a  subtle,  nndenialilo 
loveableness.     Londoners  and  sailors  cannot  resist 


QiJICKSANb^.  30^ 

its  music,  for  both  return  to  it  in  their  age,  whitlier- 
:*oevor  they  may  have  wandered. 

Mrs.  Wylie  it  was  who  moved  at  last,  rising 
with  characteristic  determination,  as  if  the  pas- 
time of  thought  were  a  vice  not  wisely  encouraged. 
She  stood  before  Brenda  in  her  widow's  weeds, 
looking  down  through  tlic  dim  light  with  a  faint 
smile. 

"Come,"  she  said;  ••we  must  get  ready  for 
dinner.  Remember  that  Mrs.  Hicks  is  going  to 
call  for  you  at  eight  o'clock  to  take  you  to  that 
Ancient  Artists'  Guild  soiree.  I  should  put  on 
a  white  dress  if  I  were  you,  and  violets.  The 
gifted  William  Hicks,  whojn  we  met  in  the  Park 
this  afternoon,  asked  what  flowers  he  should  bring, 
and  I  suggested  violets." 

Brenda  laughed  suddenly,  but  her  hilarity  fin- 
ished in  a  peculiar,  abrupt  way. 

'*  Telle  est  la  vie  !  "  she  murmured,  as  she  rose' 
obediently.  ''  What  a  labor  this  enjoyment  some- 
times is  I " 


CHAPTEK  VII. 

QUICKSANDS. 

**'  Wot's  this — runaway  couple  ?  "  asked  a  pallid 
and  slip-shod  waiter  of  his  equally-unwholesome 
colleague  in  the  dining-room  attached  to  a  largo 
City  railway  station. 

"  D'no,"  answered  the  second,  with  weary  in- 
difference ;  "  we  don't  otfen  see  that  sort  down 
ere. 


aid  SUSPEA^SM. 

"  There's  a  sort,"  continued  the  first  attendant, 
pulling  down  his  soup-stained  waistcoat,  "  o'  har- 
istocratio  simplicity  about  them  and  their  wants 
as  pleases  my  poetic  and  'igh-borii  soul/' 

"  Indeed,"  yawned  the  other  with  withering 
sarcasm. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  " 

The  sarcasm  was  treated  with  noble  scorn  by 
its  victim,  who  was  called  away  at  that  moment 
by  a  bumping  sound  within  the  lift-cupboard. 

In  the  meantime  Trist  and  Alice  Huston  were 
turning  their  attention  to  dinner. 

The  novelty  of  the  situation  pleased  the  lady 
vastly.  There  was  a  spice  of  danger  coupled  with 
a  sense  of  real  security  imparted  by  the  presence 
of  her  calm  and  resourceful  companion  which  she 
appreciated  thoroughly.  For  Trist  there  was, 
however,  less  enjoyment  in  the  sense  of  novelty. 
A  war-correspondent  is  a  man  to  whom  few  situ- 
ations are,  strictly  speaking,  novel,  and  it  is,  or 
should  be,  his  chief  study  to  acquire  the  virtue  of 
adaptability,  and  never  to  allow  himself  to  be 
carried  away  by  the  forces  of  environment. 

His  sense  of  chivalry  Avas  too  strong  to  allow 
the  merest  suggestion  of  weariness,  but  in  his  in- 
most heart  there  was  a  vague  uneasiness  at  the 
thought  that  there  was  still  an  hour  before  the 
train  for  the  east  coast  left,  not  the  station  where 
they  were  at  present,  but  one  near  at  hand.  He 
knew  that  to  the  fugitive  every  moment  is  of  im- 
measurable value,  but  for  the  time  being  he  feared 
no  pursuit.  His  measures  had  been  too  carefully 
taken  for  that,  and  all  the  private  detectives  in 
London  could  not  approach  this  impenetrable 
strategist  in  cunning  or  foresight. 

Only  an  hour  had  passed  since  he  and  Alice 


QUICKSANDS.  an 

Huston  had  met  on  the  stairs  of  Suffolk  Mansioni^, 
and  since  then  tlie  excellent  construction  of  a 
London  cub  and  the  justly-praised  smoothness  of 
London  roadways  hud  effectually  put  u  stop  to 
any  conversation  of  a  connected  or  confidential 
nature. 

At  first  Alice  had  been  too  frightened  to  resent 
this,  and  subsequently  the  manner  of  her  eonipan- 
iou,  which  was  at  once  reassuring  and  repelling, 
had  checked  her  efforts.  Xow  the  pallid  wuiters 
were  almost  within  earshot,  and  Theodore  Trist, 
who  concealed  a  keen  power  of  ohservation  beneath 
a  deameanor  at  times  aggravatingly  stolid,  was 
fully  aware  that  they  were  interested,  and  con- 
sequently inquisitive.  The  result  of  this  knowl- 
edge was  a  singular  lack  of  the  ordinary  outward 
signs  of  mystery.  He  spoke  in  rather  louder 
tones  than  was  his  wont,  told  one  or  two  amusing 
anecdotes,  and  laughed  at  them  himself,  while 
Mrs.  Huston  unconsciously  aided  him  by  smiling 
in  a  slightly  weary  way.  This  last  conjugal  touch 
of  human  nature  went  far  to  convince  the  waiter 
that  the  two  were  after  all  nothing  more  interest- 
ing than  husband  and  wife. 

"Theo,  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you,"  Avhispered 
Mrs.  Huston  once  when  the  waiter  was  exchanging 
civilities  with  the  cook's  assistant  down  a  speaking- 
tube. 

**  Yes,''  replied  Trist,  interested  in  his  "bread  ; 
**wait  until  we  are  in  the  train." 

**  Where  are  we  going  ?" 

**  I  will  tell  you  afterward  ;  these  fellows  might 
hear.  Will  you  have  wine  ?  What  shall  it  be, 
something  light — say  Xiersteiner  ?" 

He  softened  his  apparent  brusqueness  with  a 
,«raile,   and   she   blushed     promptly,    which    was 


212  SUSPENSE. 

an  nnnecessary  proceeding.  Trist^s  sang-froid 
was  phenomenal. 

By  a  simple  subterfnge,  of  which  he  was  almost 
ashamed,  he  had  obtained  tickets  to  a  small  east- 
coast  watering-place  without  leaving  any  trace 
Avhatever  and,  at  seven  o'clock  they  left  Liverpool 
Street  Station,  in  the  same  compartment,  without 
having  allowed  the  railway  officials  to  perceive 
that  they  were  acquainted.  There  were  but  few 
first-class  passengers  in  the  train,  and  they  were 
alono  in  the  compartment.  The  li^ht  provided 
was  not  a  brilliant  specimen  of  its  kind  ;  reading 
or  pretending  to  read  was  out  of  the  question. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  talk,  so  Trist  gave 
himself  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  his  compan- 
ion, and  for  the  time  vouchsafed  his  entire  atten- 
tion to  the  details  of  a  story  too  common  and  too 
miserable  to  recapitulate  here.  Probably  you, 
who  may  turn  these  pages,  know  the  story  ;  if  not, 
an  old  traveler  takes  the  liberty  of  wishing  that 
you  never  may. 

"  And,"  said  Mrs.  Huston  between  half-sup- 
pressed sobs,  when  the  tale  was  told,  '' I  simply 
could  not  stand  it  any  longer,  so  I  came  home.  I 
...  I  hoped,  Theo,  to  find  you  in  England,  and 
when  Brenda  told  me  that  you  were  in  the  East, 
busy  with  some  horrid  war,  it  was  the  last  straw. 
I  wonder  why  people  want  to  fight  at  all.  Why 
can't  the  worlcf  live  in  peace  ?  " 

Trist  tugged  pensively  at  the  arm-rest,  and 
looked  out  into  the  darkness  without  replying. 
He  did  not  seem  at  that  moment  prepared  to  an- 
swer the  extremely  pertinent  and  relevant  ques- 
tion propounded.  If  Mrs.  Huston  had  expected 
a  proper  show  of  masculine  emotion,  she  must 
have  Deen  plightly  disappointed  ;  for  during  no 


QUICKSANDS.  213 

part  of  her  narrative  had  the  incongrnons  face 
opposite  to  her,  beneath  the  ludicrous  lamp,  dis- 
played aught  else  than  a  most  careful  and  intelli- 
gent attention,  What  she  required  was  sympathy, 
not  attention.  Her  story  Avas  not  calculated  to 
withstand  too  close  a  study.  Being  in  itself  emo- 
tional, it  was  eminently  dependent  upon  an  emo- 
tional reception  ;  it  was,  in  fact,  a  woman's  narra- 
tive, fit  for  relation  by  a  peaceful  fireside,  in  tiie 
hush  of  twilight,  on  the  top  (so  to  speak)  of  tea 
and  muffins,  and  to  a  woman's  ear.  Eetailed  to  a 
hard  practical  man  of  the  Avorld  in  a  noisy  train, 
where  the  more  pathetic  vocal  inflections  were 
inaudible  ;  after  dinner,  and  while  narrator  and 
listener  wore  thick  wraps  and  gloves,  it  lost  weiglit 
most  lamentably.  She  ought  to  have  thought  of 
these  trifles,  which,  however,  are  no  trifles.  You, 
dear  madam,  know  better  tlian  to  attempt  to  soften 
your  husband's  stony  heart  when  he  is  protected 
by  gloves,  or  boots,  or  top-coat.  Ah  !  these  little 
things  make  a  mighty  difference. 

Trist  was  an  ardent  follower  of  that  school  of 
philosophy  which  seeks  to  ignore  the  emotions. 
By  means  of  cold  suppression  he  would  fain  have 
wiped  all  passions  out  of  human  nature,  and,  hav- 
ing moved  amidst  bloodshed  and  among  men  en- 
gaged in  bloodshed,  he  had  learnt  that  our  deepest 
feelings  are,  after  all,  mere  matters  of  habit. 
From  the  Eastern  lands  he  knew  so  well,  it  is 
probable  that  he  had  brought  back  some  reflection 
of  that  strange  Oriental  apathy  of  life  which  is 
incomprehensible  to  our  more  highly-strung  Wes- 
tern intellects. 

When  Mrs.  Huston  pushed  her  dainty  veil  reck- 
lessly up  over  the  front  of  her  bonnet,  and  made 
no  pretense  of  hiding  the  tears  that  rendered  her 


214  SUSPENSE. 

lovely  face  almost  angelic  in  its  pathos,  Trist  made 
no  further  acknowledgment  of  emotion  than  a 
momentary  contraction  of  the  eyelids.  He  con- 
tinued tugging  pensively  at  the  leather  arm-rest, 
while  his  eyes  only  strayed  at  times  from  the  flash- 
ing ligiits  of  peaceful  village  or  quiet  town  to  the 
beautiful  form  crouching  against  the  somber  cush- 
ions opposite  to  him. 

"  Oh  !  why  .  .  .  did  you  ever  let  me  marry 
him  ?"  sobbed  Alice  miserably. 

He  glanced  at  her  with  a  peculiar  twist  of  his 
lips,  downward,  to  one  side.  Then  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  very  slightly. 

'M  ?  .  .   .  What  had  I  to  do  with  it,  Alice  ?'' 

There  was  something  in  his  voice,  a  certain  dull 
concentration,  which  had  the  singular  effect  of 
checking  her  sobs  almost  instantaneously,  although 
lier  breast  heaved  convulsively  at  short  intervals, 
like  the  swell  that  follows  a  storm  at  sea,  long  after 
the  rage  has  subsided. 

She  touched  her  eyes  pi-ettily  with  a  diminutive 
handkerchief,  and  made  an  effort  to  recover  her 
serenity,  smoothing  a  wrinkle  out  of  the  front  of 
her  dress. 

"  Well,"  she  sighed,  "  I  suppose  you  had  as 
much  influence  over  me  as  anybody.  And  .  .  . 
and  you  never  liked  him,  Theo.  I  could  see  that, 
and  lately  the  recollection  of  it  has  come  back  to 
me  more  vividly." 

"  You  forget  that  I  was  in  China  at  the  time 
of  your  engagement.  My  influence  could  not 
have  been  very  effective  at  such  a  range — even  if 
1  had  taken  it  upon  myself  to  exert  it,  which  would 
have  been  an  unwarrantable  liberty." 

'•  I  was  Bo  young,"  she  pleaded,  *'  and  so  inex- 
perienced." 


QUICKSANDS.  515 

*' Twenty-two,"  he  observed  reflectively  ;  '•'aud 
yon  had  your  choice,  I  suppose,  of  all  the  best 
men  in  London." 

In  some  vague  way  Mrs.  Huston's  eyes  con- 
veyed a  contradiction  to  this  statement,  although 
her  lips  never  moved.  A  man  less  dense  than  this 
wur-correspondent  appeared  to  be  would  have 
understood  readily  enough  what  that  glance  really 
signified. 

"  I  hope,"  he  continued  imperturbably,  ''that 
this  misunderstanding  is  only  temporary  .   .   ." 

She  laughed  bitterly,  and  examined  the  texture 
of  her  lace  handkerchief  with  a  gracefully  im- 
patient poise  of  the  head. 

"  Huston  .  .  .  loves  you." 

"  And  you,"  she  answered  pertly,  "  hate  him  ! 
Why  ?        Tell  me  why,  Theo." 

' '  I  hate  no  one  in  tlie  world,"  he  answered. 
"Not  on  principle,  but  because  I  have  met  no 
one  as  yet  whom  I  could  hate.  There  has  in- 
variably been  some  redeeming  point." 

*•'  And  what  is  my  husband's  redeeming  point  ?  " 

"His  love  for  you,"  answered  Trist  promptly, 
and  with  sucli  calm  assurance  that  his  companion 
evacuated  her  false  position  at  once,  and  returned 
to  her  original  line  of  argument. 

"I  only  had  Brenda,"  she  murmured  sorrow- 
fully ;  •'•  and  she  is  like  you.  She  listens  and 
listens  and  listens,  but  never  gives  anv  real  advice." 

''If  she  had,  would  you  liave  taken  it  ?"  sug- 
gested Trist. 

The  graceful  shoulders  moved  interrogatively 
and  indifferently. 

"I  suppose  not." 

During  the  silence  that  followed.  Trist  looked 
at  his  watch,  openly  and  without  disguise.     The 


2i6  sLrsPEA'S/^. 

journey,  whicli  was  a  short  one,  Avas  almost  half 
accomplished,  and  the  train  was  now  running  at  a 
breakneck  pjico  through  the  level  SuUolk  meadows. 
Hardly  a  light  was  visible  overall  the  silent  land. 
There  were  no  tunnels  and  no  bridges,  consequently 
the  sounds  of  travel  were  reduceel  to  a  minimum. 
It  is  the  petty  local  trains  that  make  the  most 
noise  ;  the  groat  purposeful  expresses  run  almost 
in  silence.  In  this,  my  brothers,  I  think  we  re- 
semble trains  in  some  degree.  There  are  those 
among  us  who  nuike  little  way  upon  Life's  iron 
track  with  a  great  noise  ;  and  those  who  travel  far 
are  silent, 

'*'I  don't  believe  you  care  a  iig  what  becomes  of 
me  I "  said  Mrs.  Huston  at  length  in  a  reckless 
way. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  slow,  grave  smile,  but 
made  no  other  answer. 

"Do  you  ?  "  she  asked  coquettishly. 

He  was  quite  grave  now,  and  her  breathing  bo- 
came  slightly  accelerated. 

"  Yes  !  "  quite  simply. 

Presently  Trist  roused  himself,  as  if  from  un- 
pleasant reflections,  and  began  talking  about  the 
future. 

"I  should  like  to  know,''  he  said,  ''exactly 
what  you  think  of  doing,  because  I  have  not  much 
time.  At  any  moment  Kussia  may  declare  war 
against  Turkey,  and  T  shall  have  to  go  at  once." 

'•' If  Russia  declares  war,  I  shall  kill  myself.  I 
think." 

He  laughed,  and  changed  his  position,  drawing 
in  his  feet,  and  leaning  forward  with  his  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees. 

"No,"  he  said  with  genial  energy.  "I  would 
not. do  that,  if  I  were  yon.     If  I  nniy  be  allowed 


QL'/CA'SAXDS.  217 

fo  make  a  suggestion,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  will 
do  well  to  come  to  a  distinct  understanding  with 
Huston,  either  through  the  mediation  of  Mrs. 
Wylie  or  by  letter.  You  cannot  go  on  long  like 
this."^ 

"What  sort  of  understanding?'"  she  inquired, 
with  that  nonchalant  impatience  of  detail  which 
seems  to  be  the  special  prerogative  of  beautiful 
women. 

"  Ask  hini  to  give  you  three  months  to  think 
over  matters  ;  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  you 
can  have  an  interview  with  him,  and  come  to  some 
definite  agreement  respecting  the  future." 

She  sighed,  and  leant  back  wearily,  looking  at 
him  in  a  curious,  snake-like  way  beneath  her 
lowered  lids. 

"Three  months  will  make  no  difference." 

"Nevertheless  .  .   .  try  it." 

"  I  want,"  she  said  in  a  dull  voice,  "  ....  a 
divorce  I " 

For  a  moment  a  veil  seemed  to  have  been 
lifted  from  his  eyes  ;  all  meekness  vanished,  and 
the  glance  was  keen,  farsighted.  almost  cruel. 

"Yon  cannot  get  that,  Alice.  It  is  impos- 
sible !  " 

She  turned  her  face  quite  away  from  him  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  jerking  the  arm-rest 
nervously.  Her  breath  clouded  the  glass.  She 
murmured  something  inaudible. 

"  Eh  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  could  make  it  possible,"  she  said  jerkily, 
and  her  voice  died  away  in  a  sickening  little 
laiigh. 

For  some  moments  there  was  a  horrible  silence, 
and  then  Theo  Trist  spoke  in  a  strange,  thick 
yaice,  quite  unlike  his  own, 


2l8  SUSPENSE. 

**  Alice,"  he  said,  "do  yon  ever  tliink  of 
Brendti  ?  Do  vou  ever  think  of  anv  one  but 
yourself  ?  " 

Tiie  words  came  as  a  cold  and  chilling  surpri.se 
to  Mrs.  Huston,  and  she  began  slowly  to  realize 
that  she  had  met  with  something  which  was  en- 
tirely new  to  her.  She  had  come  in  contact  with 
a  man  upon  whom  the  eliect  of  her  beauty  was 
of  no  account.  Her  powers  of  fascination  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  left  her,  and  across  her  mind 
there  Hashed  a  gleam  of  that  unpleasant  light  by 
the  aid  of  which  we  arc  at  times  enabled  to  see 
ourselves  as  others  see  us.  It  was  only  natural 
and  womanlike  that  she  should  resent  the  shed- 
ding of  this  light,  and  visit  her  resentment,  not 
upon  the  disclosure  made  by  it,  but  on  the  il- 
luminator of  the  unpleasant  scene. 

''Oh,"  she  nmttered  angrily,  ''yon  are  all 
against  me  !  iS'o  one  cares  for  me  ;  no  one  makes 
allowances." 

Trist  smiled  in  a  slow,  strong  way  which  was 
inllnitely  pathetic. 

"No,"  he  said,  "no  one  makes  allowances; 
you  must  never  expect  that." 

Then  Mrs.  Huston's  tears  began  to  flow  again, 
and  the  self-contained  man  opposite  to  her  sat 
with  white,  bloodless  lips  and  contracted  eyes  star- 
ing into  the  blackness  of  the  night. 


MASKED.  J19 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MASKED. 

The  soiree  of  the  Ancient  Artists'  Guild  was 
in  the  full  flow  of  its  success.  There  had  been 
some  excellent  music,  and  the  program  prom- 
ised more.  The  brill iauc}-  of  the  attendance  was 
equal  to  the  highest  hopes  of  the  most  ambi- 
tious committee.  Long  hair  and  strange  dresses 
vouched  for  the  presence  of  self-conscious  intel- 
lect ;  small  receding  foreheads,  hopeless  mouths, 
and  fair  but  painted  faces,  announced  the  pres- 
ence of  that  shade  of  aristocracy  which  prefers  to 
patronize. 

William  Hicks  was  not  on  the  committee  of  the 
Ancient  Artists,  but  he  moved  about  from  group 
to  group,  dispensed  ices,  and  exchanged  artistic 
jargon  with  a  greater  grace  than  was  at  the  com- 
mand of  that  entire  august  body.  By  some  sub- 
tle means,  peculiarly  his  own.  he  managed  to 
convey  to  many  the  erroneous  idea  that  he  wns  in 
some  indefinite  way  connected  with  the  obvious 
success  of  this  soiree  ;  and  several  stout  ladies 
went  so  far  as  to  thank  him.  later  on,  for  a  pleasant 
evening,  which  gratitude  he  graciously  and  de- 
precatingly  disowned  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
it  appear  his  due.  The  pleasant  evening  had 
been  in  most  cases  spent  between  a  nervous  con- 
cern as  to  the  effect  prod  need  by  personal  and 
filial    adornment,  and   an  ill-disguised  contempt 


2z<i  susPEA'sr:. 

for  conitnon  women  whoflauut  titles  and  diamonds 
(both  uncoveted)  in  the  faces  of  their  superiors, 
possessing  neither.  But  we  men  eannot  be  ex- 
pected to  understand  those  things. 

Chiefly  was  William  Hicks'  devotion  laid  at 
Brenda's  feet,  l-'or  her  \\  as  reserved  his  sweetest 
smile,  just  tempered  with  that  suggestion  of  poetic 
pathos  which  he  knew  well  how  to  si)rinkle  over 
his  mirth.  To  her  ear  was  retailed  the  very 
latest  witticism,  culled  from  the  brain  of  some 
other  man,  and  skilfully  reproduced,  not  as  a  cut- 
ting, but  as  a  modest  seedling.  To  lier  side  he 
returned  most  often,  and  over  lier  chair  stooped 
most  markedly. 

It  lias  been  hinted  already  that  Hicks,  with  all 
his  talents  and  mental  gifts,  was  not  an  observant 
man.  In  certain  small  diplomacies  of  social  life 
he  was  no  match  for  the  quiet-faced  girl  whom  he 
was  pleased  to  honor  this  evening  with  his  con- 
spicuous attention. 

She  was  miserably  anxious,  but  she  hid  it  from 
him  ;  and  he  talked  on,  quite  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  in  no  manner  heeding  his  words. 
Her  quick,  acquired  smile  was  ready  enou^li  ; 
when  an  answer  was  required,  slie  was  equal  to 
the  occasion.  Ah  !  these  social  agonies  !  There 
is  a  sort  of  pride  in  enduring  them  with  cheerful 
stoicism. 

"  I  am  glad,"  murmured  Hicks,  with  a  depre- 
cating smile,  ''  that  my  motlier  succeeded  in  drag- 
ging von  here.  It  is  a  sort  of  intellectual  treat 
for  me.  We  ])ainters  are  so  incurably  shoppy  in 
our  talk,  that  it  is  really  a  relief  to  have  you  at 
my  mercy — so  to  speak.  This  is  a  success,  is  it 
not  y     There  are  a  great  many  celebrities  in  the 


room." 


MASkEt).  221 

.     *' Indeed  ?" 

•'  Yes  ;  and  I  always  feel  a  slight  difference  in 
the  atmosphere  when  there  is  some  one  present 
with  a  name  one  likes  to  hear." 

He  looked  round  the  room  with  glistening  eye 
and  delicate  nostrils  slightly  distended,  as  if  snilf- 
ing  his  native  atmosphere  of  Fame. 

•'One  can  generally  recognize  a  celebrated  man 
or  woman,  I  think,"  he  continued.  '*'  There  is  an 
indefinite  feeling  of  power — a  strength  of  indi- 
viduality which  seems  to  hover  round  them  like 
an  invisible  halo." 

''  Ye-es,"  murmured  Brenda  vaguely.  A  mo- 
ment later  she  was  conscious  of  havmg  looked 
round  the  room  as  if  in  search  of  halos,  and 
wondered  uncomfortably  whether  her  companion 
had  seen  the  movement. 

Then  a  stout  lady,  with  a  very  dark  complexion, 
suddenly  raised  an  exquisite  voice,  and  a  com- 
plete silence  acknowledged  its  power  instantane- 
ously. It  was  a  quaint  old  song,  with  words  that 
might  have  had  no  meaning  whatever,  beyond 
trite  regrets  for  days  that  could  never  come 
again,  had  they  been  sung  with  less  feeling — less 
true  human  sympathy. 

Brenda  literally  writhed  beneath  the  flood  of 
harmony.  She  tried  not  to  listen — tried  vainly 
to  look  round  her  and  think  cynical  thoughts 
about  the  hollow  shams  of  society,  but  some  es- 
])ecially  deep  and  tender  note  would  reach  her 
heart,  despite  the  wall  of  worldliness  that  she  had 
built  around  it.  It  would  seem  that  that  stout 
(■heery  woman  could  see  through  the  smiles, 
through  the  affected  masks,  and  penetrate  to  the 
heart,  which  is  never  quite  safe  from  the  sudden 
onslauglit  of  yonthfnl  memorie.s  surviving  still. 


m  SUSPENSE. 

youthful  hopes  since  crushed,  and  youthful  weak- 
nesses never  healed. 

Brenda  looked  round  the  room  with  a  semi-in- 
terested little  smile  (such  as  we  see  in  church 
sometimes  when  a  preacher  has  got  well  hold  of 
his  audience),  and  suddenly  her  face  grew  wliite, 
her  breath  seemed  to  catch,  and  for  some  seconds 
there  was  no  motion  of  her  throat  or  bosom.  Res- 
piration seemed  to  be  arrested.  With  an  effort 
siie  recovered  herself,  and  a  great  sigh  of  relief 
filled  her  breast. 

Among  a  number  of  men  beneath  the  curtained 
doorway  she  had  recognized  an  upright,  sturdy 
form,  beside  which  the  narrower  shoulders  and 
sunken  chests  of  poetic  and  artistic  celebrities 
seemed  to  shrink  into  insignificance.  The  way  in 
which  this  man  carried  his  head  distinguished 
him  at  once  from  those  around  him.  He  was  of 
quite  a  different  stamp  from  his  companions,  most 
of  whom  depended  upon  some  peculiarity  of  dress 
or  hair  to  distinguish  them  from  the  very  ordinary 
ruck  of  young  men. 

Across  that  vast  room  Trist's  eyes  met  Brenda's, 
and  although  his  calm  face  changed  in  no  way, 
betrayed  by  no  slightest  tremor  that  he  had  come 
with  the  wild  liope  of  meeting  her,  his  lips 
moved. 

"Thank  God,  I  have  done  it  !"  he  muttered, 
beneath  the  whirl  of  polite  applause  that  greeted 
the  stout  lady's  elephantine  bow. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  room  Hicks  noticed 
with  some  surprise  that  Brenda  drew  her  watch 
from  her  belt,  and  consulted  it  with  particular 
attention.  She  was  counting  the  number  of  hours 
since  sbe  had  last  seen  Theodore  Ti-ist,  with  signs 
of  travel  still  visible  on  his  dress  and  person,  just 


MASKED. 


!23 


starting  off  on  a  new  jourue}-,  without  rest  or 
respite.  It  was  now  midnight.  She  had  never 
thougiit  that  he  would  return  the  same  night — in 
fact,  she  was  sure  that  he  had  not  intended  to  do 
so.  And  here  he  was — cahn,  thoughtful,  almost 
too  cool,  as  usual,  without  sign  of  fatigue  or  sug- 
gestion of  hurry.  His  dress  was  faultless,  his  ap- 
pearance and  demeanor  politely  indifferent. 

"I  hope,"  said  Hicks  meaningly,  **  that  you 
are  not  growing  weary.     It  is  early  yet." 

He  looked  round  the  room,  with  a  pleasant  nod 
for  an  acquaintance  here  and  there  whom  he  had 
not  seen  before. 

"Oh,  no/'  said  Brenda  lightly  in  reply.  *' I 
just  happened  to  wonder  what  the  time  might  be. 
I  hope  it  was  not  rude." 

He  laughed  forgivingly,  still  looking  about 
him. 

"Ah  !"  he  exclaimed  in  an  altered  tone.  "Is 
that  not  Trist  ?     Dear  old  Theo  Trist ! " 

"  Yes  " 

Brenda  had  apparently  followed  the  direction 
indicated  bv  her  companion's  gaze,  and  was  now 
looking  toward  the  newcomer  with  an  inimitable 
little  smile  which  completely  quashed  all  attempts 
to  divine  whether  she  were  surprised,  or  pleased, 
or  politely  interested. 

Trist  was  making  his  way  slowly  across  the 
room,  exchanging  greetings  here  and  there. 
Brenda,  in  her  keen  observant  way,  conceived  a 
sudden  idea  that  his  manner  was  not  quite  natural. 
Although  of  a  kindly  spirit,  Trist  was  not  a  genial 
man  with  a  smile  full  of  affection  for  the  merest 
acquaintance  ;  and  the  girl,  in  some  vague  way, 
felt  that  he  was  shaking  hands  witii  men  and 
women  who  were  profoundly  indifferent  to  hiiu. 


224  SUSPENSE. 

Indeed,    he   seemed  to  go  out    of  his  way   to  do 

80. 

''When  did  you  get  home?"  she  heard  some 
one  ask  him  ;  and  the  reply  was  delivered  in 
clear  tones,  audible  at  a  greater  distance  than 
Trist's  voice  usually  was,  as  if  with  intention. 

"  This  afternoon,"  he  said.  "  Only  this  after- 
noon.     I  landed  at  Plynu)uth  this  morning." 

The  next  moment  he  was  standing  before  her 
with  his  brown  face  bowed,  his  har.d  extended. 

"You  see,  Brenda."  he  said,  '' I  have  turned 
up  again.  A  veritable  dove  without  the  leaf  in 
my  mouth.     I  am  an  emblem  of  peace." 

Instinctively,  and  without  knowing  her  motive, 
she  answered  in  the  same  way,  conscious  that  it 
was  his  wish. 

"■  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  back,"  she  said. 

Then  he  turned  to  Hicks,  and  shook  hands 
with  more  warmth  than  that  ethereal  being  had 
expected. 

"  You  see.  Hicks,"  he  said,  ••  I  cannot  resist 
Hying  at  once  to  pay  my  respects  at  the  shrine  of 
Art — only  arrived  in  London  this  afternoon,  and 
here  I  am  in  full  war-paint,  with  a  flower  in  my 
coat  and  my  heart  in  my  eyes.  What  pictures 
have  I  to  admire  ?     You  may  as  well  tell  me." 

Hicks  laughed  in  his  semi-aad  way,  and  men- 
tioned a  few  pictures  of  note,  which  were  carefully 
remembered  by  his  hearer.  Then  Trist  turned 
to  Brenda  and  offered  her  his  arm. 

"Will  you  come,"  he  said,  "and  have  some  tea 
or  an  ice,  or  something  ?  " 

Brenda  appeared  to  hesitate  for  a  moment,  then 
gave  in  with  that  reluctant  alacrity  which  is  to  be 
observed  when  a  lady  is  making  a  sacrifice  of  her 
Qwn  inclinatioR, 


MASKED.  225 

As  they  moved  away  together  through  the 
crowded  room  there  was  a  sndden  hush,  and  suc- 
ceeding it  a  louder  buzz  of  expectant  conversation, 
Trist  looked  over  the  heads  of  the  people  toward 
the  little  flower-bedecked  platform  at  the  end  of 
the  room, 

*'  Ah  !  "  he  said  ;  "  Crozier  is  going  to  sing. 
Shall  we  wait  ?    It  is  a  pity  to  miss  Sam  Crozier." 

Nevertheless  ho  made  no  attempt  to  stop,  and 
they  passed  through  tlie  doorway  into  a  smaller 
gallery,  which  was  almost  deserted. 

"  I  am  in  luck  to-night  ;  everything  I  have 
attempted  has  been  a  success.  So  we  shall  prob- 
ably find  the  refreshment-room  empty." 

She  laughed  in  a  nervous  w^ay,  and  her  touch 
upon  his  arm  wavered. 

"We  must  run  the  risk,"  he  continued,  "of 
being  talked  about ;  but  I  must  see  you  alone  for 
a  few  minutes.  It  is  strange,  Brenda,  that  we  are 
always  getting  into  hot  water  together," 

"Oh  !  "  she  said  indifferently,  "  the  risk  is  not 
very  great.  People  do  not  talk  much  about  me. 
Alice  possesses  that  unfortunate  monopoly  in  our 
family. " 

"  That  is  whv  I  must  see  you," 

"Yes,  ...  1  know." 

They  had  passed  through  the  smaller  room 
and  out  of  it  into  a  brilliant  corridor,  whence  a 
broad  flight  of  stairs  led  up  to  the  refreshment- 
room. 

"  There  is  a  sofa  half-way  up  the  stairs,"  said 
Trist.  "  It  is  a  good  position,  quite  out  of  earshot, 
and  very  visible — therefore  harmless  ;  let  us  oc- 
cupy it  I " 

W  hen  they  were  seated,  Brenda  leant  back  with 
that  air  of  grave  attention  which  was  peculiarly 


2  26  SUSPENSE. 

hers,  and  which,  I  venture  to  think,  is  rarely  met 
with  in  women. 

"  When,"  said  Trist  in  a  smooth  and  even  tone, 
"I  got  back  to  town,  I  figuratively  tore  my  hair, 
and  said  to  myself  :  •  Where  shall  I  find  Brenda 
— where  shall  I  find  Brenda  to-night  ?'  I  took  a 
hansom  back  to  my  rooms,  changed,  and  then 
drove  to  SnfTolk  Mansions,  Mrs.  Wylie  told  me 
where  you  were  ;  I  gave  chase,  and  .  .  .  and  1 
caught  you." 

The  girl  turned  her  face  slightly,  and  her  child- 
like blue  eyes  sought  his  with  a  quaint  air  of 
scrutiny. 

"  When,"  she  said,  ''you  left  Suffolk  Mansions 
this  afternoon  with  Alice,  you  had  no  intention  of 
returning  to  London  to-night." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  deliberation  of  her 
assertion.  She  was  defying  him — daring  him  to 
deny. 

He  met  her  glance  for  a  moment — no  longer. 

"That,"  he  confessed  airily,  after  a  pause,  '*  is 
80  !" 

"And,"  continued  the  girl  with  more  con- 
fidence, "  since  that  time  your  views  respecting 
Alice  have  become  modified  or  changed  in  some 
way,  perhaps  ?  " 

He  moved  with  some  uneasiness,  and  appeared 
particularly  wishful  to  avoid  encountering  her 
frank  gaze.  He  clasped  his  two  hands  around  his 
raised  knee,  and  stared  at  the  carpet  with  a  non- 
committing  silence  which  was  almost  Oriental  in 
its  density. 

"Brenda,"  he  whispered  at  length,  "I  have 
had  an  awful  scare  !  " 

She  drew  in  a  deep  breath  with  a  little  shivering 
sound,  and  moistened  l)erlips — first  the  lower,  and 


MASKED.  $if 

then  tiie  tippef.  There  was  a  motnetitarjr  gleam 
of  short,  pearly  teeth,  and  the  red  Cupid's-bow 
of  her  mouth  reassiimed  its  usual  contour  of  de- 
mure self-reliance. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  faint 
echo  of  distant  applause  came  to  their  ears. 

''  I  wonder,"  said  the  girl  at  length,  "  how 
many  men  would  have  taken  as  much  trouble  a8 
you  have  taken  to-night  for  the  sake  of  such  a 
trifling  aflHair  as  a  woman's  good  name  ?  " 

A  dull  red  color  slowly  mounted  over  her  white 
throat  to  her  face — a  painful  blush  of  intense 
shame,  which  she  was  too  proud  to  attempt  to 
hide.  The  deliberation  with  which  she  spoke 
the  words,  and  then  held  up  her  burning  face 
that  he  might  see,  had  he  wished,  was  very  char- 
acteristic. 

Trist  himself  changed  color,  and  his  firm  lips 
opened  as  if  he  were  about  to  reply  hastily. 
He  checked  himself,  however,  and  they  sat 
through  several  painful  moments  without  motion. 

During  that  time  their  two  souls  merged,  as  it 
were,  into  a  complete  understanding — so  entire, 
so  perfect  and  faithful,  that  no  spoken  words  could 
ever  have  brought  its  semblance  into  existence. 
He  knew  that  his  painful  task  was  now  finished, 
that  Brenda  now  understood  his  reason  for  coming 
back  to  London  at  onre.  l^Ioreover,  he  was  aware 
that  she  had  divined  the  cause  of  his  sudden  geni- 
ality on  first  arriving  at  the  soiree,  and  there  was 
no  need  to  tell  lier  that  all  London  could  now 
find  out,  if  it  pleased,  that  the  war-correspondent, 
Theodore  Trist,  had  arrived  home  from  the  East 
that  afternoon,  and  was  seen  by  many  in  the 
evening  at  a  public  place  of  entertainment. 

But  Brenda  was  not  content  with  divination  of 


228  SUSPENSE. 

motives.  It  was  her  evil  habit  to  proceed  to 
analysis,  and  in  this  pastime  she  made  a  mistake. 
Trial's  motive  in  running  away,  as  it  were,  from 
the  dangerous  proximity  of  a  desperate  and 
beautiful  woman  was  clear  ;  and  although  a  large 
majority  of  men  would,  under  the  circumstances, 
have  had  the  generosity  to  do  the  same,  she  was 
pleased  to  consider  this  act  a  most  wondrous 
thing — her  reason  for  doing  so  being  that  she 
was  convinced  that  Trist  loved  her  sister  with  all 
the  cruel  and  taciturn  strength  of  his  nature. 
This  was  an  utter  mistake,  and  Theo  Trist  was 
unaware  of  its  existence. 

Ah  !  these  little  mistakes  !  We  spend  a  small 
portion  of  our  lives  in  making  them,  and  the  rest 
in  trying  to  repair. 

*'  Grive  me,"  said  Brenda,  "  her  address,  and  I 
will  go  to  her  to-morrow." 

'■'She  is  at  the  Castle  Hotel,  Burgh  Ferry,  Suf- 
folk, There  is  a  train  from  Liverpool  Street 
Station  leaving  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  for  Bnrgh 
Station,  which  is  four  miles  from  Burgh  Ferry." 

"  I  have  heard  of  the  place,"  said  Brenda  com- 
posedly. "  Have  you  been  there  and  back  this 
evening  ?  " 


ii 


Yes.  I  just  had  time  to  install  Alice  comfort- 
ably in  the  hotel,  Avhich  is  really  nothing  more 
than  an  inn,  and  is  the  largest  house  in  the  village. 
I  have  a  list  for  you — here  it  is — of  things  that 
Alice  would  like  you  to  take  to  her  to-morrow." 

Brenda  took  the  paper  and  glanced  at  it 
rapidly. 

"  It  is  a  long  one,"  she  said  with  a  short,  hard 
laugh.  **I3  she  quite  resigned  to  burying  herself 
alive  for  a  short  time  ?  " 

"  Ye-es.  ...  I   put   things    rather    strongly. 


MASKED.  229 

She  has  consented  to  commanicate  with  her  hus- 
band through  Mrs.  Wylie,  with  the  view  of  com- 
ing to  some  sort  of  agreement." 

The  girl  drew  a  sharp  breath  of  relief. 

"There  .  .  .  were  ...  a  good  many  tears," 
added  Trist  rather  unevenly.  "  I  would  suggest 
a  good  supply  of  books,"  he  said  a  moment  later 
in  a  practical  way.  ••  It  is  a  dreadfully  dull  little 
place  f  which  makes  it  safer),  and  too  much  think- 
ing is  hardly  desirable  at  the  present  time." 

"  It  is  questionable  whether  much  thinking  is 
profitable  at  any  time." 

Trist  looked  at  her  in  a  curious,  doubtful  way, 
and  then  he  rose  from  his  seat. 

*'I  will  take  you  home-now,"  he  said,  "  if  you 
are  ready.     It  is  nearly  one  o'clock." 

She  rose  a  little  wearily,  and,  lifting  her  gloved 
hand,  skirmished  deftly  over  her  hair  in  order  to 
make  sure  that  it  had  not  become  deranged.  He 
noted  the  curve  of  her  white  arm,  and  the  quick 
play  of  her  fingers,  while  he  stood  erect  and 
motionless,  waiting.  Xo  passing  light  of  emotion 
was  visible  in  his  eyes,  which  possessed  a 
strange,  unreflective  power  of  observation.  That 
round  whito  arm  was  looked  upon  as  a  beautiful 
thing,  and  nothing  more.  And  she  was  a  trifle 
weary.  Her  face  Ijetrayed  no  sign  of  mental  or 
natural  anxiety. 

Then  she  took  his  arm,  and  they  passed  down 
the  splendid  stairs  together.  Co-heirs  to  a  truly 
human  inheritance  of  sorrow,  they  bore  their 
burden  without  complaint  or  murmur,  with  a 
self-reliance  behooving  children  of  an  acute  civili- 
zation. For  civilization  will  in  time  kill  all  hu- 
man sympathy. 

"Iwillgo  home  with  you,"  said  Trist,    "be- 


2^0  SUSPENSE. 

cause  some  precautions  are  necessary  in  order  io 
escape  observation  on  your  journey  to-morrow, 
and  I  have  several  suggestions  to  make." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN   CASE    OF    WAR. 

As  the  winter  settled  over  Europe — here  with 
doom  and  fog,  there  with  bright  keen  frosts  and 
dazzling  snow — the  feeling  of  anxiety  respecting 
affairs  in  the  East  slowly  subsided.  The  general 
conviction  was  that  Russia  would  not  move  against 
her  hereditary  Moslem  enemy  until  the  winter  was 
over  ;  for  even  hatred,  sturdy  weed  though  it  may 
be,  is  killed  by  cold. 

Theodore  Trist.  fresh  from  those  mysterious 
Oriental  lands  which  are  so  much  more  romantic 
from  a  distance,  gave  no  opinion  upon  the  matter, 
because  he  was  a  practical  business-man,  and  fully 
aware  of  the  market  value  of  hi.«  observations. 

By  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  following  the 
soiree  of  the  x\ncient  Artists,  he  alighted  from  a 
hansom  cab  opposite  the  huge  office  of  the  journal 
to  which  his  pen  was  pledged.  A  few  moments 
later  he  was  shaking  hnnds  uneffusively  with  the 
editor.  This  gentleman  has  been  introduced  be- 
fore, and  men  at  his  ago  change  little  in  appear- 
ance or  habit.  His  vast  head  was  roughly  pic- 
turesque as  usual,  his  speech  manly  and  to  the 
point. 

"  Glad  to  see  you  back,"  he  said,  in  a  business- 
like way.     •'  Sit  down.     None  the  wor^e.  I  hope  ?" 


LY  CASE  OF  JVAR.  231 

he  added,  in  n  softer  tone,  aud  accompanied  his 
observation  with  a  keen  glance.  "  None  the  worse 
for  the  smell  of  powder  again  ?  " 

"'  No,"  was  the  answer.  **  That  smell  never 
did  any  man  much  harm." 

The  editor  smiled,  and  drew  some  sti'aggling 
papers  together  upon  his  desk. 

"  I  want/'  said  Trist,  after  a  pause,  '•  to  make 
a  lot  of  money." 

"i^h  !" 

"Enough,"  continued  Trist  gravely,  "to  put 
into  something  secure,  and  insure  a  steady  income 
in  the  piping  times  of  peace." 

The  editor  clasped  his  large  hands  gravely  with 
fingers  interlocked,  and  placed  them  on  the  desk 
in  front  of  him. 

"That,"  he  said,  with  raised  eyebrows,  "is 
bad." 

"But  natural,"  suggested  the  younger  man. 

"  When  a  man  of  your  age  suddenly  expresses 
a  desire  for  something  which  ,  .   ." 

"  He  has  never  had,"  remarked  Trist  meekly. 

"  Which  he  has  never  had  or  wished  for,  it  is 
suggestive  of  a  change — a  radical  change — in  that 
man's  plan  of  life." 

Trist  raised  his  square  shoulders  slightly  and 
respectfully. 

"Now,"  continued  the  editor,  in  his  most  solid 
and  convincing  way,  "  you — Theodore  Trist — are 
the  most  brilliant  war-correspondent  of  a  brilliant 
and  warlike  generation.  You  are,  besides  that, 
a  clever  fellow — perhaps  an  exceptionally  clever 
fellow.  But,  my  friend,  there  are  many  clever 
fellows  in  the  world.     It  is  an  age  of  keen  com- 

{)etition,  and  the  first  man  in  the  race  must  never 
00k  back  to  see  whose  step  it  is  that  he  hear^ 


232  SUSPEiVSE.  ' 

behind  him.  We  live  in  a  time  of  specialties,  and 
we  must  be  content  with  specialties.  You  are  a 
born  war-correspondent,  and  I  suppose  your  am- 
bition is  to  prove  that  you  can  do  something  else 
— write  a  novel,  or  edit  a  religious  periodical — 
eh  ?  " 

Trist  laughed,  and  returned  the  gaze  of  a  pair 
of  remarkably  bright  eyes  without  hesitation. 

"No,"  he  answered.  *'  I  am  content  with  the 
mark  I  have  made,  but  there  is  not  sufficient  money 
to  be  gained  at  it,  considering  how  much  it  takes 
out  of  a  man.  I  am  as  strong  as  a  horse  yet,  but 
I  have  noticed  that  there  are  some  of  us  who,  con- 
sidering their  years,  are  not  the  men  they  should 
be.  It  is  a  desperately  hard  life,  and  we  are  con- 
stantly required.  If  I  live  ten  years  longer,  I 
shall  be  laid  on  the  shelf,  as  far  as  active  service 
goes." 

The  editor  looked  much  relieved,  and,  moreover, 
made  no  pretense  of  concealing  his  feelings. 

"I  have  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "Of 
course,  we  will  take  you  on  the  editorial  staff." 

"Now  .  .  .?" 

The  elder  man  raised  his  head,  and  the  kindly 
gray  eyes  searched  his  companion's  face. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  slowly.  "  That  is  your  game. 
Have  you  lost  your  nerve  ?  " 

"No." 

"Then  you  contemplate  some  great  change  in 
your  plan  of  life." 

"  Hardly,"  returned  Trist,  with  some  delibera- 
tion ;  "but  I  want  to  be  prepared  for  such  an 
emergency." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"Why?" 

'*  Because  you  are  too  young  yet,     An4  »  ♦  * 


IN  CASE  OF  WAR.  233 

and,  my  boy,  I  don't  want  to  lose  the  best  war- 
correspondent  that  ever  crossed  a  saddle." 

The  object  of  this  honest  flattery  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  There  are  jilenty  more  coming  on." 

The  great  man  shook  his  head. 

*'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  asked,  "  that 
you  are  going  to  turn  your  back  upon  a  splendid 
career,  and  take  up  journalism  ?  Why,  my  dear 
fellow,  even  at  my  age  I  would  willingly  change 
my  chair  for  your  saddle,  and  men  say  that  I 
am  at  the  top  of  the  journalistic  tree.  Come, 
be  candid  ;  why  are  you  giving  up  active  ser- 
vice ?  " 

*'  Because  I  am  wanted  at  home,  and  because  I 
must  find  some  means  of  making  a  steady  in- 
come." 

**  Will  you  take  my  advice  ?  "  asked  the  elder 
man  humbly.  " 

They  were  like  two  friendly  gladiators,  these 
immovable  journalists,  each  conscious  of  the 
strength  that  lay  behind  the  gentle  manner  of  the 
other,  both  anxious  to  avoid  measuring  steel. 

Trist  laughed  good-humoredly. 

"  I  will  not  promise." 

*'  No  ;  that  would  be  asking  too  much  from  a 
man  who  has  made  his  own  way  with  his  own 
hands.  My  advice  is  :  do  nothing  until  the  neces- 
sity arises.  At  the  first  rumor  of  war  we  will  talk 
this  over  again.  In  the  meantime,  let  us  wait  on 
events.  You  will  write  your  leaders  as  usual,  and 
I  suppose  you  are  busy  with  something  in  book 
form  ?  " 

"  If,"  answered  Trist,  "there  is  war  in  Turkey, 
I  will  go,  because  I  told  you  tbat  I  would,  bat 
that  will  be  my  last  campaign." 


234  St/SP£jVS/u 

The  editor  looked  at  him  with  kindly  scrutiny  ; 
then  he  scratched  his  cliin. 

''  Why  ? "  he  asked  deliberately,  and  with  a 
consciousness  of  exceeding  the  bounds  of  polite 
non-interference. 

"I  cannot  tell  you — yet." 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  during  which  neither 
moved,  and  the  stillness  in  that  little  room  wiiich 
lay  in  the  very  lieart  of  restless  Loudon  was  re- 
markable. 

The  editor  looked  very  grave.  There  Mere  no 
papers  on  his  desk  requiring  immediate  attention, 
but  he  held  his  peiieil  within  his  strong  lingers 
ready,  as  it  were,  to  add  his  notes  to  any  nev..s 
that  might  come  before  him.  The  responsibility 
of  a  great  jourtuilist  is  only  second  to  tiiat  of  a 
Prime  Minister  in  a  country  like  England,  wl)ei-(> 
the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  and  obeyed.  Had 
this  man  i  urned  his  attention  to  pditics,  he  would 
perhaps  have  attained  the  Premiership  ;  but  ho 
was  a  journalist,  and  from  that  small  silent  rootn 
his  fiats  went  forth  to  the  i-cady  ears  of  half  a 
nation.  Few  men  read  more  than  one  newspaper, 
and  we  have  not  yet  got  over  the  weakness  of  at- 
taching l^ndue  importance  to  words  that  are  set 
in  type  :  consequently  the  influence  of  an  impor- 
tant journal  over  the  mind  of  the  nation  to  M-hicli 
it  dictates  is  practically  incalculable. 

*'  You  know,"  said  this  nu:tdern  Jove  at  leugtli, 
"  as  well  as  I  do  that  there  will  be  war  as  soon  as 
the  winter  is  over." 

In  completion  of  his  rcmai'k  he  nodded  his  vast 
head  sideways,  vaguely  indicating  the  East. 

"Yes,"  was  the  meek  answer  :  "'that  is  so — a 
war  which  will  bet'in  in  a  one-sided  wav,  and  last 
longer  than  we  quite  e.xpcct  :  but  I  will  go." 


IN  CASE  OF  WAR.  335 

"  I  fancy,"  remarked  the  editor  after  some  re- 
fiection,  "  that  Russia  will  make  a  very  common 
mistake,  and  underrate,  or  perhaps  despise,  her 
adversary." 

Trist  nodded  his  head. 

"■  They  are  sure  to  do  that,"  he  said  ;  *'  but  I 
suppose  they  will  win  in  the  end." 

'*  And  you  will  be  on  the  losing  side  again." 

•'  Yes  ;  I  shall  be  on  the  loeing  side  again.'' 

Both  men  relapsed  into  profound  meditation. 
'Prist's  meek  eyes  were  inxed  on  the  soft  Turkey 
carpet — the  only  suggestion  of  ease  or  luxury 
about  the  room.  The  editor  glanced  from  time 
to  time  at  his  companion's  strong  face,  and  occu- 
pied himself  with  making  small  indentations  in 
his  blotting-pad  with  the  point  of  a  blacklead 
pencil. 

'*  Trist,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  cannot  do  with- 
out you  in  this  war." 

^'  The  war  has  not  come  yet.  Many  things 
may  happen  before  the  spring,  but  I  will  not  play 
jou  false.     You  need  never  fear  that." 

Then  he  rose  and  buttoned  his  thick  coat  ;  for, 
like  all  great  travelers,  he  wrapped  himself  up 
heavily  in  England.  It  is  only  very  yoiing  and 
quite  "inexperienced  men  who  gather  satisfaction 
from  the  bravado  of  wearing  no  top-coat  in  winter. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  ;  '•  I  must  go  up  to  the 
publishers." 

"  Good-by,"  replied  the  editor  heartily  ;  •'  look 
in  whenever  you  are  passing.  I  hope  to  see  you 
one  night  soon  at  the  Homeless  Club  ;  they  are 
going  to  give  you  a  dinner,  I  believe." 

"  Yes  ;  I  heard  something  of  it.  It  is  very 
good  of  them,  but  embarrassing,  and  not  strictly 
oecessary." 


236  SUSPENSE. 

Trist  passed  out  of  the  small  room  into  a  lon^ 
passage,  and  thence  into  what  was  technically 
called  the  shop — a  large  apartment,  i cross  which 
stretched  a  heavily-built  deal  counter,  and  oJ 
which  the  atmosphere  was  warm  with  the  Intel 
lectual  odor  of  printing-ink. 

The  doorkeeper,  who  persisted,  in  face  of  con- 
tradiction, in  his  conviction  that  Mr.  Trist  was  3 
soldier,  drew  himself  stiffly  up  and  saluted  as  he 
held  open  the  swing-door.  It  was  one  of  those 
cold  blustering  days  which  come  in  early  Novem- 
ber. A  dry  biting  southeast  wind  howled  round 
every  corner,  and  disfigured  most  physiognomiej 
with  patches  of  red,  more  especially  in  the  nasa) 
regions.  Nevertheless,  the  air  was  clear  and  brisk 
— just  the  day  to  kill  weak  folks  and  make  strong' 
people  feel  stronger. 

With  his  gloved  hands  buried  in  the  pockets  ol 
his  thick  coat,  the  war-correspondent  wandered 
along  the  crowded  pavement  of  the  Strand,  rub- 
bing shoulders  with  beggar  and  genius  indiffer- 
ently. 

He  was  not  a  man  much  given  to  useless  re- 
flections or  observations  upon  matters  climatic, 
and  so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  thoughts  that  he 
would  have  been  profoundly  surprised  to  learn 
that  a  biting  east  wind  was  withering  up  humanity. 
He  looked  into  the  shops,  and  presently  became 
really  interested  in  a  display  of  rifles  exposed  in 
the  unpreiendiug  window  of  a  small  establish- 
ment. 

It  is  strange  how  the  sight  of  those  tools  or  in- 
struments, with  which  we  have  at  one  time 
worked  for  our  living  affects  us.  The  present 
writer  has  seen  an  old  soldier  handle  a  bayonet  in 
a  curious  reflective  way  which  could  not  be  mis- 


IN  CASE  OF  WAR.  237 

understood.  The  ancient  warrior's  face,  in  some 
subtle  sense,  became  hardened,  and  his  manner 
changed.  I  myself  grasp  a  rope  differently  from 
men  who  have  never  trodden  a  moss-grown  deck, 
and  the  curve  of  the  hard  strands  within  my  fin- 
gers tells  a  tale  of  its  own,  and  brings  back,  sud- 
denly, ineffaceable  pictures  of  the  great  seas. 

Theodore  Trist  stood  still  before  the  upright 
burnished  barrels  which  the  poet  has  likened  to 
organ-pipes,  and  to  his  mind  there  came  the 
memory  of  their  music,  and  the  roar  of  traffic 
round  him  Avas  almost  merged  into  the  grand, 
deep  voice  of  cannon.  It  is  in  the  midst  of  death 
that  men  realize  fully  the  glorious  gift  of  life,  and 
those  who  have  known  the  delirious  joy  of  battle — 
have  once  tasted,  as  it  were,  the  cup  of  life's  greatest 
emotion — are  aware  that  nothing  but  a  battle- 
field can  bring  that  maddening  taste  to  their  lips 
again. 

The  contemplative  man  breathed  harder  and 
deeper  as  his  eyes  rested  on  lock  and  barrel,  and 
for  some  time  he  stood  hearing  nothing  round  him, 
seeing  nothing  but  the  instruments  of  death. 

''Yes,"  he  murmured,  as  he  turned  away  at 
length.  *' I  mw5^go  to  the  Russian  war.  One 
more  campaign,  and  then  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  who 
knows  ?  '* 


338  SUSF£NS£, 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  PROBLEM. 

BRENDAleft  Mrs,  Wylie  at  eleveu  o'clock,  mere- 
ly walking  away  from  the  door  of  the  Suffolk  Man- 
sions without  wrap  or  luggage.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  Avas  being  watched  or  no,  but 
her  pains  were  so  simple,  and  yet  so  canning,  that 
the  question  gave  her  little  trouble.  Detection 
was  impossible.  Trist  had  seen  to  that,  and  his 
strategy  had  been  the  subject  of  some  subdued 
laughter  the  night  before,  because  Brenda  com- 
plained that  she  felt  like  an  army.  He  had  un- 
consciously dictated  to  her,  in  his  soft,  suggestive 
way,  and  so  complete  were  his  instructions,  so  ab- 
ject the  obedience  demanded,  that  there  was  some 
cause  for  her  laughing  dissatisfaction.  With  in- 
telligence, education,  experience,  reading,  and 
money  it  is  no  difficult  matter  to  evade  the  closest 
watcher,  and  Trist  was  not  at  all  afraid  of  sucli 
means  as  lay  at  Captain  Huston's  disposal  for 
tracing  the  hiding  place  of  his  wife. 

When  Mrs.  Wylie  found  herself  left  alone,  she 
proceeded  placidly  to  await  further  events.  She 
was  convinced  that,  sooner  or  later,  the  husband 
of  her  protege  would  appear.  Wiietherthis  ques- 
tionable honor  would  be  conferred  with  bluster 
and  righteous  indignation  or  with  abject  self-abuse, 
remained  to  be  seen.  Neither  prosf)ect  appeared 
to  have  the  power  of  ruffling  the  lady's  serene  hu- 
mor.    The  morning  )iewspaper  received  its  usual 


A  PROBLEM.  239 

attention,  and  subsequently  there  were  some  now 
books  to  be  cut  and  glanced  at.  Lunch  had  ah*eady 
been  ordered — hmch  for  two,  and  something 
rather  nice,  because  Theo  Trist  had  invited  him- 
self to  partake  of  tbe  lonely  widow's   hospitality. 

In  her  small  way,  Mrs,  Wylie  was  likely  to  pass 
an  eventful  day,  but  the  thought  of  it  in  nowise 
took  away  her  interest  in  December's  Temple  Bar. 
She  Avas  one  of  tiiose  happy  and  lovable  Avomen 
who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  adding  to  their  griev- 
ances by  anticipating  them  ;  for  it  is  an  undeni- 
able fact  that  sorrows  as  Avell  as  joys  are  exagger- 
ated by  anticipation.  Personally,  I  much  prefer 
going  out  to  get  my  hair  cut  as  soon  as  ever  I 
realize  the  necessity.  It  is  a  mistake  to  put  off 
the  operation,  because  the  scissors  seem  to  hang 
over  one's  luxuriant  locks  with  a  fiendish  click  dur- 
ing the  stillv  hours. 

About  twelve  o'clock  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door  which  shut  off  Mrs.  Wvlie's  comfortable 
suite  of  rooms  from  the  rest  of  the  house. 

''  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  occupant  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. '' Our  violent  friend.  Twelve  o'clock: 
I  must  get  him  out  of  the  house  before  Theo  ar- 
rives. " 

She  leant  back  and  tapped  the  pages  of  her 
magazine  pensively  with  an  ivory  paper-cutter, 
while  her  eyes  rested  on  the  door. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  moments  there  was 
audible  the  sound  of  murmuring  voices,  followed 
shortly  by  footsteps. 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  William  Hicks 
made  a  graceful  entree,  finished,  as  it  were,  by 
the  delicately-tinted  flower  he  carried  in  his  gloved 
fingers. 

Mrs.  Wylie  rose  at  once  with  a  most  reprehen- 


540  St/SP£A'S£. 

Bively  deceitful  smile  of  welcome.  She  devoutly 
wished  William  Hicks  in  other  parts  as  she  offered 
lior  plump  white  hand  to  his  grasp. 

The  artist,  with  passahle  dissimulation,  glanced 
round  the  room.  No  sign  or  vestige  of  Brenda  I 
The  rose  Avas  deftly  dropped  into  his  hat  and  set 
aside.     It  had  cost  two  shillings. 

"  Ah  I  Mrs.  Wylie,"  he  exclaimed,  '•  I  was  half 
afraid  you  would  be  out  shopping.  The  wind  is 
fiimply  excruciating." 

"  Then  warm  yourself  at  once.  I  am  afraid  I 
am  alone." 

Hicks  was,  in  his  way,  a  bold  man.  He  relied 
thoroughly  upon  a  virtue  of  his  own  which  he  was 
pleased  to  call  tact — others  said  its  right  name 
Avas  '*'  cheek." 

"  Afraid  !  "  he  said  reproachfully,  and  with  an 
inquiring  smile. 

"  Yes — the  girls  are  out." 

He  laughed  in  a  pleasant  deprecating  way,  and 
held  his  slim  hands  toward  the  fire. 

*'  How  absurd  you  are  !  "  he  said.  "  I  merely 
ran  in  to  ask  if  a  lace  handkerchief  I  found  last 
night  belonged  to  Miss  (.iilholme," 

He  began  to  fumble  in  his  jiockets  without  any 
great  design  of  finding  the  handkerchief.  Mrs. 
Wylie  spared  him  the  trouble  of  going  farther. 

••'  Bring  it  another  time,"  she  said. 

She  knew  the  handkerchief  trick  well.  It  is 
very  simple,  my  brother  :  pick  u]>  a  lace  trifle 
anywhere  about  the  ball-room,  and  with  a  slight 
draft  upon  your  imagination,  you  have  a  graceful 
excuse  to  call  at  any  house  you  may  desire  the 
next  afternoon.  If  there  is  not  one  to  be  found, 
one  can  easily  buy  such  a  thing,  and  it  serves  for 
years.     Xo  young  man  is  complete  without  it. 


A  PROBLEM.  241 

For  some  minutes  William  Hicks  talked  airily 
about  the  soiree  of  the  Ancient  Artists,  throwing 
in  here  and  there,  in  his  pleasant  wa}-,  a  blast 
upon  his  individual  instrument,  of  which  the  note 
was  wearily  familiar  to  his  listener. 

At  last,  however,  he  let  fall  an  observation 
which  made  Mrs.  Wylie  forgive  him,  ''  a  un  coup,*' 
his  early  call. 

'•^Imet,"  he  said  casually,  "that  fellow  .  .  . 
Huston  this  morning." 

Mrs.  Wylie  laid  aside  the  paper-knife  with 
which  she  had  been  trifling.  The  action  scarce 
required  a  moment  of  time,  but  in  that  moment 
she  had  collected  her  faculties,  and  was  ready  for 
him  with  all  the  alertness  of  her  sex. 

*''Ah!  What  news  had  he?"  she  inquired 
suavely. 

••'  Oh,  nothing  much.  We  scarcely  spoke — 
indeed,  I  don't  believe  he  recognized  me  at  first." 

Mrs.  Wylie  raised  her  eyebrows  in  astonish- 
ment. 

''He  came  yesterday,"  she  said,  "to  get  his 
wife  ;  and  Brenda  has  gone  away,  too,  so  I  am 
all  alone  for  a  few  days." 

This  was  artistic,  and  the  good  lady  was  men- 
tally patting  herself  on  the  back  as  she  met  Hicks' 
glance,  in  which  disappointment  and  utter  amaze- 
juent  were  struggling  for  mastery. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  continued  she  calmly,  "that 
I  shall  stay  in  town  much  longer.  I  am  expecting 
a  houseful  of  quiet  people — waifs  and  strays — at 
Wyl's  Hall,  at  Christmas,  so  must  really  think  of 
going  home.  But  I  will  call  on  your  mother  be- 
fore going.     Give  her  my  love  and  tell  her  so." 

William  Hicks  was  not  the  man  to  make  a 
social  blunder.     He  rose  at  once,  and  said  "  Good- 


242  SUSPENSE. 

morning,"  with  his  sweetest  smile.  Then  ho 
bowed  himself  out  of  the  room,  taking  the  two- 
shilling  rose  with  him. 

Mrs.  Wvlio  resented  herself,  and  withheld  her 
sigh  of  relief  nntil  the  door  liad  closed.  She  then 
took  up  her  book  again,  but  presently  closed  its 
pages  over  her  fingers,  and  lapsed  into  thought. 

'•That  voung  man."  she  reliucted,  '•  is  findiug 
his  own  level.  lie  may  give  tronble  yet,  but 
Brenda  goes  serenely  on  her  way,  quite  uncon- 
seious  of  all  these  little  games  at  cross-purposes 
of  which  she  is  the  center." 

The  good  lady's  reflections  continued  in  tliis 
vein.  She  leant  hack  with  that  pleasant  sense  of 
comfort  which  was  almost  feline  in  its  supple 
grace.  Her  eyes  contracted  at  times  with  a  vague 
far-off  anxiety — the  reflex,  as  it  were,  of  the  sor- 
rows of  others  upon  her  own  placid  life,  from 
which  all  direct  emotions  were  weeded  now. 

When,  at  length,  the  sound  of  a  bell  awoke  lier 
from  these  dav-dreams,  she  rose  and  arranged  the 
cheery  fireplace  with  a  sudden  access  of  energy. 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  without  emotion, 
*'who  is  coming  now." 

With  a  glance  round  the  room  to  see  that  her 
stage  was  prepared,  she  reseated  herself. 

Again  the  door  opened,  and  this  time  the  new 
arrival  did  not  hurry  into  the  room,  but  stood 
upon  the  threshold  wailing.  Mrs.  "W'ylio  looked 
np  with  a  pleasant  expectancy.  It  was  Captain 
Huston. 

The  soldier  glanced  round  the  room  uneasily, 
and  then  he  advanced  tov.-ard  the  lire  witliout 
attempting  any  sort  of  greeting.  Mrs,  Wylie  re- 
mained in  her  deep  chair,  and  as  the  Captain 
came  toward  her,  she  watched  h.im.     His  unsteady 


A  PROBLEM.  343 

hands  gave  his  hat  no  rest.  Taking  his  stand  on 
the  hearthrug,  ho  began  at  once  in  a  husky 
voice. 

'*  I  have  come  to  you,  Mrs.  Wylie,"  he  said, 
"  because  I  suspect  that  you  know  where  Alice  is 
to  be  found.  This  game  of  hide-and-seek  to  which 
she  is  treating  me  is  hardly  dignified,  and  it  is 
distinctly  senseless.  If  1  choose  to  take  decided 
steps  in  the  matter,  I  can,  of  course,  have  her 
luinted  down  like  a  common  malefactor.'" 

He  spread  his  gaitered  feet  apart,  and  waited 
with  confidence  the  result  of  this  shot. 

"In  the  meantime,"  suggested  Mrs.  Wylie, 
with  unruflSed  sweetness,  "it  is  really,  perhaps, 
wiser  that  you  should  remain  apart.  I  sincerely 
trust  that  this  is  a  mere  temporary  misunderstand- 
ing. You  are  both  young,  and,  I  suppose,  both 
hasty.  Think  over  it.  Captain  Huston,  and  do 
not  press  matters  too  much.  If,  in  a  short  time, 
you  approach  Alice  with  a  few  kind  little  apolo- 
gies, I  believe  she  would  relent.  You  must  really 
be  less  hard  on  us  women — make  some  allowance 
for  our  more  tender  nerves  and  silly  suscepti- 
bilities." 

By  way  of  reply,  he  laughed  in  a  rasping  way, 
without,  however,  being  actually  rude. 

"  I  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  having 
heard  that  before,"  he  observed,  with  forced  cvn- 
icism,  *'or  something  of  a  similar  nature.  The 
kind  little  apologies  you  mention  are  due  to  me  as 
much  as  they  are  to  Alice.  Of  course,  she  has 
omitted  to  draw  your  attention  to  sundry  little 
flirtations.  .  .   ." 

The  widow  stopped  him  with  a  quick  gesture 
of  disgust. 

•■  I  refuse,"  she  said  deliberatelv,  "  to  listen  tu 


244  SUSPENSE. 

details.  Alice  will  tell  you  that  I  treated  her  in 
the  Bame  way.  These  matters,  Captain  Huston, 
should  be  sacred  between  husband  and  wife." 

'•  Well,  1  suppose  you  have  Alice^s  story  through 
Brenda  ?  It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  I  can  see 
you  are  prejudiced  against  me." 

Mrs.  Wylie  smiled  patiently,  with  a  suggestion 
of  sympathy,  Avhich  her  companion  seemed  to 
appreciate. 

"  The  world,"  she  said,  "  is  sure  to  be  prejudiced 
against  yon  in  the  present  case.  You  nnist  re- 
member that  the  moral  code  is  different  for  a 
pretty  woman  than  for  the  rest  of  us.  Moreover, 
the  husband  is  blamed  in  preference,  because  peo- 

})le  attribute  the  original  mistake  of  marrying  to 
lim.  I  don't  say  that  men  are  always  to  blame 
for  mistaken  marriages,  but  the  initiative  is  popu- 
larly supposed  to  lie  in  their  hands." 

Captain  Huston  tugged  at  his  drooping  mus- 
tache pensively.  He  walked  to  the  window,  with 
the  assurance  of  one  who  knew  his  way  amidst  the 
furniture,  and  stood  for  some  time  looking  down 
into  the  street.  Presently  he  returned,  avoiding 
Mrs.  AYylie's  eyes  ;  but  she  saw  his  face,  and  her 
own  grew  suddenly  very  sympathetic. 

He  played  nervously  Avitli  the  ornaments  upon 
the  mantelpiece  for  some  moments,  deeply  im- 
mersed in  thought.  There  was  a  chair  drawn  for- 
ward to  the  fire,  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  fur 
hearthrug  to  that  occupied  by  Mrs.  Wylie.  This 
he  took,  sitting  hopelessly  with  his  idle  hands 
hanging  at  either  side. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  he  asked,  half  cynically. 

Before  replying,  the  widow  looked  at  him — ■ 
gauging  him. 

<'  Do  you  really  mean  that  V* 


A  PROBLEM.  245^ 

"Of  bourse — I  am  helpless.  A  man  is  no  match 
for  three  women." 

"■  To  begin  with,  yon  must  have  more  faith  in 
other  people.  In  myself  .  .  .  Brenda  .  .  .  Theo 
Trist." 

The  last  name  was  uttered  with  some  signifi- 
cance. Its  effect  was  startling.  Huston's  blood- 
shot eyes  flashed  angrily,  his  limp  fingers  clenched 
and  writhed  until  the  skin  gave  forth  a  creaking 
sound  as  of  dry  leather. 

"D — n  Trist!"  he  exclaimed.  ''I  will  shoot 
him  if  he  comes  across  my  path  ! " 

Mrs.  Wylie  did  not  shriek  or  faint,  as  ladies  are 
usually  supposed  to  do  when  men  give  way  to  vio- 
lent language  in  their  presence.  But  there  came 
into  her  eyes  a  slight  passing  shade  of  anxiety, 
which  she  suppressed  with  an  effort. 

**  But  first  of  all,"  she  said,  "'you  must  learn  to 
restrain  yourself.  You  must  understand  that 
bluster  of  any  description  is  quite  useless  against 
myself  or  Theo.  Alice  may  be  afraid,  bu  t  Brenda 
is  not  ;  and  with  Alice  fear  is  closely  linked  with 
disgust.     Do  not  forget  that. " 

She  spoke  quite  calmly,  with  a  force  which  a 
casual  observer  would  not  have  anticipated.  In 
her  eagerness  she  leant  forward,  with  a  warning 
hand  outstretched. 

"  And,"  he  muttered,  "  I  suppose  I  am  to  sup- 
press all  my  feelings,  and  go  about  the  world  like 
a  marble  statue.  It  seems  to  me  that  that  fellow 
Trist  leaves  his  impression  on  you  all.  His  doc- 
trine is  imperturbability  at  any  price.  It  isn't 
mine  T" 

"  N"or  mine,  Captain  Huston.  All  I  preach  is 
a  little  more  restraint.  Theo  goes  too  far,  and 
his  reticence  leads  to  mistakes,     You  have  been 


346  SUSPENSE. 

misled.  You  think  that  .  .  .  your  wife  and 
Theo  Trist  .  .  .  love  each  other. 

The  soldier  looked  at  her  steadily,  his  weak 
nether  lip  quivering  with  excitement.  Then  he 
slowly  nodded  his  head. 

"  That — is  my  impression." 

Mrs.  Wylie  evinced  no  hurry,  no  eagerness  now. 
She  had  difficult  cards,  and  her  full  attention  was 
given  to  playing  them  skilfully.  She  leant  back 
again  in  her  comfortable  chair,  and  crossed  her 
hands  upon  her  lap. 

"  Using  primary  argument,"  she  said  concisely, 
"  and  meeting  opinion  with  opinion,  I  contend 
that  you  are  mistaken.  I  will  be  perfectly  frank 
with  you,  Captain  Huston,  because  you  have  a 
certain  claim  upon  my  honesty.  In  some  ways 
Alice  is  a  weak  woman.  It  has  been  her  misfor- 
tune to  be  brought  up  and  launched  upon  society 
as  a  beauty  ;  a  man  who  marries  such  a  woman  is 
assuming  a  responsibility  which  demands  special 
qualifications.  Judging  from  what  I  have  ob- 
served, I  am  very  much  afraid  that  you  possess 
these  qualifications  in  but  a  small  degree.  Do  you 
follow  me  ?  " 

The  man  smiled  in  an  awkward  way. 

"  Yes.    You  were  going  to  say,  *  I  told  you  so.'  " 

''That,"  returned  the  widow,  "  is  a  remark  I 
never  make,  because  it  is  profitless.  Moreover,  it 
would  not  be  true,  because  I  never  told  you  so. 
Circumstances  have  in  a  measure  been  against 
you.  You  could  scarcely  have  chosen  a  more 
dangerous  part  of  the  world  in  which  to  begin 
your  married  life  than  Ceylon.  As  it  happens, 
you  did  not  choose,  but  it  was  forced  upon  you. 
In  England  we  live  differently.  A  young  married 
woman  is  thrown  more  exclusively  upon  the  society 


A  PROBLEM.  247 

of  hor  husband  ;  there  is  less  temptation.  You 
will  find  it  less  difficult  ..." 

*'  Is  married  life  to  be  described  as  a  difliculty  ?  " 
he  interrupted. 

Mrs.  Wylie  did  not  reply  at  once.  She  sat^vith 
placidly  crossed  hands  gazing  into  the  fire.  There 
was  a  slight  tension  in  the  lines  of  her  month. 

"Life,"  she  replied,  ''in  any  form,  in  any 
sphere,  in  any  circumstances,  is  a  difficulty." 

After  a  moniejit  she  resumed  in  a  more  practi- 
cal tone  : 

''Again,  Alice  is  scarcely  the  woman  to  make 
a  soldier's  wife  in  time  of  peace.  War  .  .  .  would 
bring  out  her  good  points." 

Huston  moved  restlessly.  Mrs.  Wylie  turned 
her  soft  gray  eyes  toward  his  face,  and  across  her 
sympathetic'  features  there  passed  an  expression 
of  real  pain.  She  had  divined  his  next  words  be- 
fore his  lips  framed  them. 

*'  I  am  not  a  soldier,  Mrs.  Wylie." 

"Resigned  .  .  .  ?"  she  whispered. 

"No  ;  turned  out." 

Unconsciously  she  was  swaying  backward  and 
forward  a  little,  as  if  in  lamentation,  while  she 
rubbed  one  hand  over  the  other. 

'•Drink,"  continued  Huston,  harshly  ;  "  .  .  . 
drink,  and  Alice  drove  me  to  it." 

Tiu're  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room  after  this. 
The  glowing  fire  creaked  and  crackled  at  times  ; 
ociasionally  a  cinder  fell  with  considerable  clatter 
iiito  rho  fender,  but  neither  of  these  people  moved. 
At  last  Mrs.  Wvlie  looked  up. 

*'  Captain  Huston,"  she  said  pleadingly. 

"Yes." 

He  looked  across,  and  saw  the  tears  quivering 

on  her  lashes. 


248  SUSPENSE. 

•'  Come  back  to  me  to-raorrow  morDing,"  wa.'S 
her  prayer.  *' I  cannot  .  .  .  I  cannot  advise  you 
yet  .  .  .  because  I  do  not  quite  understand. 
Theo  Trist  is  coming  to  lunch  to-day.  Will  you 
come  back  to-morrow  ?  " 

'*  I  will/''  he  answered  simply,  and  left  he 
room. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MRS.  WYLIE  LEADS. 

As  Theodore  Trist  mounted  the  broad  bare  stair- 
case of  Suffolk  Mansions,  his  quick  ears  detected 
the  sound  of  Mrs.  Wylie's  door  being  drawn  for- 
cibly to  behind  departing  footsteps, 

lie  continued  his  way  without  increase  of  speed. 
The  person  whose  descent  was  audible  came  slowly 
to  meet  him,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were 
face  to  face  upon  a  small  stone-paved  landing. 

Neither  departed  from  the  unwritten  code  by 
which  Englishmen  regulate  tlieir  actions  ;  they 
merely  stared  at  each  otlier.  Trist  was  unchanged, 
except  for  a  slight  heaviness  in  build — the  addi- 
tional weight,  one  might  call  it,  of  years  and  ex- 
perience ;  but  Huston  was  sadly  altered  since 
these  two  had  met  beneath  a  Southern  sky.  Both 
were  conscious  of  a  sudden  recollection  of  sand}'' 
plain  and  camp  environments,  and  Huston 
changed  color  slightly,  or,  to  be  more  correct,  he 
lost  color,  and  his  eyes  wavered.  He  was  pain- 
fully conscious  of  his  disadvantage  in  this  trilling 
matter  of  appearance,  and  he  had  reason  to  re- 
member with  dread  the  ruthless  penetration  of  the 


MRS.  WYLIE  LEADS. 


!49 


calm  soft  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Years  before  he 
had  suspected  that  Theodore  Trist  was  cognizant 
of  a  trifling  fact  which  had  at  times  suggested  it- 
self to  him — namely,  that,  despite  braided  coat 
and  bright  sword,  despite  Queen's  commission 
and  Sandhurst,  he,  Alfred  Woodruff  Charles 
Huston,  M-as  no  soldier. 

Each  looked  at  the  other  with  tlie  hesitation 
of  men  who,  meeting,  recognize  a  face,  and  half 
await  a  greeting  of  some  description.  In  a 
moment  it  was  too  late,  and  they  passed  on — one 
up-stairs,  the  other  down,  with  unconscious  sym- 
bolism— having  exclianged  nothing  more  than  that 
expectant,  hesitating  stare  of  mutual  recognition 
and  mutual  curiosity. 

Each  was  at  heart  a  gentleman,  and  under 
other  circumstances,  in  the  presence  of  a  third 
person,  or  with  the  view  of  sparing  a  hostess  anx- 
iety, they  would  undoubtedly  have  shaken  hands. 
But  here,  beneath  the  eye  of  none  but  their  God 
(who,  in  His  wisdom,  has  purposely  planted  a  tiny 
seed  of  divergence  in  our  hearts),  they  saw  no 
cause  for  acting  that  which  could,  at  its  best, 
have  been  nothing  but  a  semi-truth. 

When  Trist  greeted  ]*ilrs.  Wylie  a  few  moments 
later,  he  detected  her  glance  of  anxiety  ;  but  it  was 
against  his  strange  ])rinciple3  to  take  the  initiative, 
so  he  waited  until  she  might  speak. 

After  a  few  commonplaces  dexterously  handled, 
she  suddenly  changed  her  tone. 

"  Theo,"  slie  said  with  that  abruptness  which 
invariably  follows  after  hesitation  on  the  brink  of 
a  difficult  subject,  "  there  was  a  man  in  this  room 
ten  minutes  ago  who  announced  his  fixed  deter- 
mination of  shooting  you  the  very  next  time  jor 
crossed  his  path," 


250  SUSPENSE. 

The  war-correspondent  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  turning  sharply  round,  he  kicked  under  the 
grate  a  small  smoking  cinder  which  had  fallen  far 
out  into  the  fender. 

"•  That  man's  statements,  whether  in  regard  to 
tilings  past  or  things  future,  should  be  accepted 
Avith  caution." 

"  Then  you  met  him  on  the  stairs  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  met  him  on  tlie  stairs  .  .  ." 

•'And  .  .  ." 

'•  And  he  did  not  shoot,"  said  TristAvith  a  short 
hiugh  as  he  turned  and  faced  ^Ir.s.  Wylio. 

Then  he  did  a  somewhat  remarkable  thing — 
remarkable,  that  is,  for  a  man  wlio  nevei-  gave 
Avay  to  a  display  of  the  slightest  emotion,  demon- 
strating either  sorrow  or  joy,  hatred  or  afTcction. 
He  took  Mrs.  Wylie's  two  hands  within  liis,  and 
forced  her  to  sit  in  the  deep  basket-work  chair 
near  the  fire  with  its  back  toward  the  window. 

Standing  before  her  with  liis  hands  thrust  into 
tlic  pockets  of  his  short  serge  jacket,  he  looked 
down  at  her  with  quizzical  alfection. 

"  Some  months  ago/' lie  said,  ''  we  made  a  con- 
tract ;  you  are  breaking  that  contract,  unless  I 
am  very  much  mistaken.  You  liave  allowed  your- 
self to  bo  anxious  about  me — is  that  not  so  ?  " 

The  widow  smiled  bravely  up  into  the  grave 
young  face. 

'*  I  am  afraid,"  she  began,  "...  yes,  I  am 
afraid  you  are  right.  But  the  anxiety  was  not 
wholly  on  your  account." 

Trist  turned  slowlv  awav.  The  movement  was 
an  excess  of  caution,  for  his  face  was  always  im- 
penetrable. 

*'  Ah  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  I  am  very  anxious  about  Alice  and  Brenda." 


lifRS.WVUR  LEADS.  %%i 

''  Ah !  "  he  murmured  again,  with  additioaai 
sympathy. 

She  did  not  proceed  at  once,  so  he  leant  back  in 
the  chair  he  had  assumed,  and  waited  with  that 
peculiar  patience  which  seemed  to  belong  to 
Eastern  lands,  and  which  has  been  noticed  be- 
fore. 

"•  Theo,"  she  said  at  last,  ''has  it  never  struck 
you  that  your  position  with  regard  to  those  two 
girls  is — to  say  the  least  of  it — peculiar  ?  " 

**  From  a  social  point  of  view  ?  " 

•-'  Yes." 

'•  If  ,"  he  said  in  a  louder  tone,  on  his  defense, 
us  it  were,  "I  were  constantly  at  home,  society 
might  have  something  to  say  about  it.  But,  as  it 
happens,  I  am  never  long  in  London,  and  conse- 
quently fail  to  occupy  that  prominent  position  in 
the  public  esteem  or  dislike  to  which  my  talents 
undoubtedly  entitle  me." 

"  Fortunately,  gossip  has  not  been  rife  about 
it." 

*'  Partly  by  good  fortune,  and  partly  by  good 
management,"  corrected  Trist.  "  With  a  little 
care,  society  is  easily  managed." 

''  A  tiger  is  easily  managed,  but  its  humors 
cannot  be  foretold." 

This  statement  was  allowed  to  pass  unchal- 
lenged, and  before  the  silence  was  again  broken, 
H  servant  announced  that  luncheon  was  ready. 
Mrs.  Wylie  led  the  way,  and  Trist  followed. 
They  were  both  rather  absorbed  during  the  dainty 
ropast,  and  eonvers;ition  was  less  interesting  than 
the  parlor-maid  could  have  wished. 

Had  Trist  been  less  honest,  he  could  have  thrown 
off  this  sense  of  guilt  which  weighed  upon  him. 
Like  most  reserved  men,  he  was  perhaps  credited 


252 


SUSPEA^SE. 


with  a  more  versatile  intellect  than  he  really  pos- 
sessed. In  his  special  line  he  was  unrivaled,  bnt 
that  line  was  essentially  manly,  and  the  finesse 
it  required  was  of  a  masculine  order.  That  is 
to  say,  it  was  more  straightforward,  more  honest, 
and  less  courageous,  than  the  natural  instinct- 
ive finesse  of  a  woman.  This  vague  struggle 
with  an  over-susceptible  conscience  handicapped 
"^rrist  seriously  during  the  tete-^-t^te  meal,  and 
rendered  his  conversation  very  dull.  He  was 
quite  conscious  of  tiiis,  and  the  effort  he  made  to 
remedy  tlie  defect  was  hardly  successful.  Men  of 
his  type — that  is,  men  of  a  self-contained,  self- 
reasoning  nature — are  too  ready  to  consider  them- 
selves of  that  heavy  material  which  forms  a  solid 
background  of  social  intercourse.  Their  very 
virtues,  such  as  steadfastness,  coolness,  complete 
self-reliance,  are  calculated  to  prevent  their  shin- 
ing in  conversation,  or  in  the  lighter  social  amen- 
ities. A  little  conversational  impulse  is  required, 
a  gay  lightness  of  touch,  and  an  easy  divergence 
from  opinions  previously  hazarded,  in  order  to 
please  tlie  average  listejier  ;  but  these  were  sadly 
wanting  in  Theodore  Trist. 

He  was  merely  a  strong,  thoughtful  man,  who 
could  think  and  reason  quickly  enougliwhen  such 
speed  was  necessary,  but  as  a  rule  he  preferred  a 
slower  and  surer  method.  He  was  ready  enough 
to  proffer  an  opinion  when  such  was  really  in  de- 
mand, and  once  spoken,  this  would  change  in  no 
way.  It  was  the  result  of  thought,  and  he  fore- 
bore  to  uphold  a  conviction  by  argument.  Argu- 
ment and  thought  have  little  in  common.  One  is 
froth  drifting  before  the  wind,  the  other  a  deep 
stream  running  always.  Trist  held  fixed  opinions 
about  most  things,  but  it  was  part  of  his  self-re- 


MRS.  IVYL/E  LEADS.  253 

Uant  and  self-sufficing  nature  to  take  no  pleasure 
whatever  in  convincing  others  that  the  opinion 
was  vahiable.  If  men  chose  to  tliink  otherwise^, 
he  tacitly  recognized  their  right  to  do  so,  and  left 
them  in  peace.  Although  he  held  certain  doc- 
trines upon  the  better  or  averse  ways  of  getting 
through  the  sjjan  of  human  life  creditably,  he  was 
singularly  averse  to  airing  them  in  any  manner. 

Now,  Mrs.  Wylie,  in  her  keen  womanliness, 
knew  very  well  how  to  deal  with  this  man.  She 
was  quite  aware  that  there  was,  behind  his  silent 
**laisser-aller/'  a  clearly-defined  plan  of  campaign, 
a  cut-and-dried  theory  or  doctrine  upon  which  his 
most  trifling  action  was  based.  There  was  an  ob- 
ject aimed  at,  and  perhaps  gained,  in  his  every 
word.  If  Theodore  Trist  was  a  born  strategist 
(of  which  I  am  firmly  convinced),  and  carried  his 
principles  of  warfare  into  the  bitter  strife  of  every- 
day existence,  he  had  in  ]!ilrs.  Wylie  an  ally  or  a 
foe,  as  the  case  might  be,  whose  maneuvers  were 
worthy  of  his  regard. 

She  possessed  a  woman's  intuitive  judgment, 
brightened  as  it  were,  and  rendered  keener,  by 
the  friction  of  a  busy  lifetime  ;  and  added  to  this, 
she  was  in  the  habit  of  acting  more  spontaneously, 
and  perhaps  with  a  greater  recklessness,  than 
came  within  Trist's  mental  compass.  These  were 
her  more  womanly  qualities,  but  her  character  had 
been  influenced  through  many  years  by  the  manly, 
upright  nature  of  her  husband,  and  it  was  from 
him  that  she  had  acquired  her  rare  doctrine  of 
non-interference.  In  woman^s  weaker  nature 
there  is  a  lamentable  failing  to  which  can  be  at- 
tributed a  large  portion  of  the  sorrows  to  which 
the  sex  is  liable.  This  is  an  utter  inability  to  re- 
frain from  adding  a  spoke  to  every  wheel    that 


354  S(/SP£A'S£. 

may  roll  bj'.  Interfereiico — silly,  unjustifiable* 
interference — in  the  ailairs  of  others  is  woman's 
vice.  She  can  no  more  keep  her  fingers  out  ol; 
other  people's  savory  pies  than  a  cat  can  kee]) 
away  from  the  sivx-ulent  pi'oducts  of  Yarmouth. 
It  has  been  said  by  cynical  people  that  a  woman 
cannot  keep  a  secret,  but  that  is  a  mistake.  If  it 
be  her  own,  she  can  keep  it  remarkably  well  ;  but 
if  it  be  the  property  of  some  one  else,  she  appears 
to  consider  it  as  a  loan  which  must  not  be  allowed 
to  accrue  interest.  I  have  tried  the  effect  of  im- 
parting to  a  woman  whom  it  affected  but  slightly, 
and  to  a  man  whose  life  would  be  altered  in  some 
degree  by  it,  a  piece  of  news  under  the  bond  of 
secrecy — a  bond  which  expired  at  a  given  date. 
The  man  held  his  peace  and  went  on  his  way 
through  life  unaffected,  untroubled  by  the  knowl- 
edge he  possessed.  1  studied  him  at  moments 
when  a  glance  or  a  word  might  have  betrayed  to 
observant  eyes  the  fact  that  he  was  in  possession 
of  certain  information.  He  looked  at  me  calmly, 
and  with  no  dangerous  glance  of  intelligence, 
Hubsequently  talking  in  a  manly,  honest  way 
which  was  in  no  degree  a  connivance  at  criminal 
suppression.  The  date  given  had  not  yet  arrived, 
but  the  knowledge  was  fresh  in  his  mind,  and  he 
treated  the  matter  in  an  honorable,  businesslike 
way.  I  know  that  my  secret  was  l)uried  in  that 
man's  brain  as  in  a  sepulcher. 

The  woman  was  uneasy.  I  could  see  that  the 
necrot  oppressed  her.  She  chafed  at  the  thought 
that  the  date  mentioned  was  still  a  long  way 
ahead.  She  longed  to  talk  of  the  matter  to  me, 
with  a  view,  no  doubt,  of  craving  permission  to 
tell  one  person,  who  would  certainly  not  repeat  it. 
By  ghuK'o  or  significant  silence  she  courted  be- 


MRS.  WYLIE  LEADS,  255 

trayal ;  and  at  one  time  she  even  urged  nie  to 
impart  the  news  to  a  mutual  friend,  in  order,  I 
take  it,  to  form  a  cluinnel  or  an  outlet  for  her 
cooped-up  volume  of  thought.  Finally,  I  dis- 
covered that  she  had  forestalled  the  date,  by 
writing  to  friends  at  a  distance,  who  actuallv  ]-e- 
ceived  the  letters  before  the  day,  but  were  unable 
to  reissue  the  news  in  time  to  incriminate  her. 

It  would  appear  that  the  same  characteristic 
defect  applies  to  the  retention  of  a  secret  as  to 
the  restraint  from  interference.  Perhaps  it  is  a 
weakness,  not  a  vice.  Mrs.  AVylie  never  sought 
confidences,  as  women,  by  a  nature  unable  to  re- 
tain secrets,  are  prone  to  do.  Her  doctrine  of 
non-interference  went  so  far  as  to  embrace  the 
small  matter  of  passing  details.  She  placed  en- 
tire reliance  in  Theodore  Trist,  and  although  his 
behavior  puzzled  her,  she  refrained  from  asking 
an  explanation  of  even  the  smallest  act.  She  was 
content  that  his  leading  motive  could  only  be  good, 
and  therefore  felt  no  great  thirst  to  know  the 
meaning  of  his  minor  actions. 

The  cynical-minded  may  opine  that  I  am  de- 
scribing an  impossible  woman.  The  fault  is  duo 
to  this  halting  pen.  I  once  drew  a  woman  who 
herself  recognized  the  portrait — a  critic  said  that 
the  character  was  impossible  and  unnatural. 

^Irs.  Wylie  was  very  natural  and  very  wonuinly, 
after  all.  She  had  almost  forced  Theo  Trist  to  in- 
vite himself  to  lunch,  and  her  anxiety  respecting 
Alice  and  Brenda  had  been  made  clear  to  him  at 
once.  She  would  not  interfere  ;  but  she  could 
not  surely  have  been  expected  to  refrain  from 
suggesting  to  him  that  the  world  and  the  world's 
opinion,  if  of  no  value  to  him,  could  not  be  ig- 
nored by  two  motherless  women. 


256  SUSPE/VSE. 

She  placed  before  liini  lier  views  upon  tlie 
matter,  and  then  she  proceeded  to  slielve  the  sub- 
ject ;  but  Trist  failed  to  help  her  in  this,  contrary 
to  her  expectation.  He  was  distinctly  dull  during 
luncheon,  and  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  his 
preoccupation.  Mrs.  Wylie  nil)bled  a  biscuit 
while  he  was  removing  the  outer  rind  of  his 
(iliecse  with  absurd  care,  and  waited  patiently  for 
him  to  say  that  which  was  undoubtedly  on  his  lips. 

The  maid  had  left  the  room  ;  there  was  no  fear 
of  interruption.  Trist  continued  to  amuse  him- 
self for  some  moments  with  a  minute  morsel  of 
Gorgonzola ;  tiien  he  looked  up,  unconsciously 
trying  the  temper  of  his  knife  niDon  the  plate 
while  he  s])oke. 

''  I  had,"  he  said,  "an  interview  with  my  chief 
this  morning." 

"  Ah  !     Sir  Edward,  you  mean 

''Yes,"  slowly,  "Sir  Edward." 

Mrs.  Wylie  saw  that  she  was  expected  to  ask  a 
question  in  order  to  keep  the  ball  rolling. 

'■'  What  about  ?  "  she  inquired  pleasantly. 

"  I  informed  him  that  I  jiroposed  burying  the 
hatchet." 

'*'  You  are  not  going  to  give  up  active  service  I  " 
exclaimed  ]\Irs.  Wylie  in  astonishment. 

•'  I  promised  to  go  to  one  more  campaign — the 
Russo-Turkish — wliich  will  come  on  in  the  spring, 
and  after  that  I  shall  follow  the  paths  of  peace. 

Mrs.  Wylie  rolled  up  her  table-napkin,  and  in- 
serted it  meditatively  into  an  ancient  silver  ring 
several  sizes  too  large  for  it. 

"  I  used  to  think,"  she  murmured,  '•  that  you 
"would  never  follow  the  ways  of  peace."  Then  slie 
looked  across  the  table  into  his  face  with  that  in- 
4escribable  contraction  of  the  eyes  which  ,some- 


9  '•" 


MRS.  WYLIE  LEADS. 


257 


times  came  even  whcu  her  lips  were  smiliug.  '•  I 
am  not  quite  sure  of  you  now,  Theo,"  she  added 
gently,  as  she  rose  and  led  the  way  toward  the 
door. 

Trist  reached  the  handle  before  her,  and  held 
the  door  open  with  that  unostentatious  politeness 
of  liis  which  made  him  different  from  the  general 
run  of  society  young  men.  As  she  passed,  he 
smiled  reassuringly,  and  said  in  his  monotonous 
wav  : 

**  I  am  quite  sure  of  myself/' 

''  Not  too  sure  ?  "  she  inquired  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

''  No." 

In  the  drawing-room  he  succumbed  to  his  hos- 
tess's Bohemian  persuasions,  and  lighted  a  cigar- 
ette.    He  seemed  to  have  forgotton  his  own  affairs. 

'*  About  Alice,"  he  began — "'  que  faire  ?  " 

For  some  reason  Mrs.  Wylie  avoided  meeting  his 
glance, 

"  I  told  Alfred  Huston,''  she  replied,  after  a 
pause,  *'  that  I  would  communicate  with  Alice, 
and  that  I  had  hopes  of  their  living  happily  to- 
gether yet." 

Her  tone  was  eminuiiLly  practical  and  business- 
like.    Trist  answered  in  the  same  way. 

'•  I  told  Alice,"  he  said  cheerily,  "  that  I  would 
ask  you  to  communicate  with  Huston  with  the  view 
of  coming  to  some  definite  arrangement.  Hide- 
and-seek  is  a  slow  game  after  a  time." 

"  What  sort  of  arrangement  ?  " 

*'  Well  ...  I  suggested  that  he  shonld  agree  to 
leave  her  unmolested  for  a  certain  time,  during 
which  she  could  think  over  it." 

Mrs.  Wylie's  smile  was  a  trifle  wan  and  uncer- 
tain. 
17 


258  '  SUSPENSE. 

*'  In  fact,  yon  made  the  best  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.     What  else  could  I  do  ?  " 

The  widow  looked  at  him  keenly.  It  was  hara 
to  believe  in  disinterestedness  like  this  ;  and  it  is 
a  very  human  failing  to  doubt  disinterestedness  of 
any   description. 

"  I  told  Alfred  Huston,"  she  said,  disconnect- 
edly, ''  that  I  trusted  you  to  do  your  honest  best 
for  all  concerned  in  this  matter." 

"  Which  statement  Huston  politely  declined  to 
confirm,  I  should  imagine." 

Mrs.  Wylie  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Denial 
was  evidently  out  of  the  question. 

**  Then   my   name  was  brought  in  ?  "  asked 
Trist  in  a  peculiar  way. 

«  Yes." 

"  By  whom  ?  " 

**  By  me.  It  would  have  been  worse  than  use- 
less, Tlieo,  to  have  attempted  ignorance  of  your 
influence  over  the  girls." 

For  a  second  time  Trist  avoided  meeting  his 
companion's  glance. 

"  I  told  Sir  Edward,"  he  said,  after  a  consider- 
able space  of  time,  "  that  I  must  be  allowed  to 
remain  in  England  for  some  time  to  come  ;  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  should  have  done  better  had  I 
asked  to  be  sent  away  on  active  service  without 
delay." 

"  I  should  hardly  go  so  far  as  to  say  that, 
Theo,"  remarked  Mrs.  Wylie  placidly  ;  "  but  I 
think  you  must  be  very  careful.  I  only  want  to 
call  your  attention  to  thelight  in  which  your  help 
is  likely  to  appear  in  the  eyes  of  the  world." 

**  You  have  no  .  .  ." — he  hesitated  before  sav- 
ing the  word  '*  man,"  but  his  listener  gave  a  little 
quick  nod  as  if  to  help  him — '*  man  to  help  you, 


MRS.  iVYLIE  LEADS. 


259 


except  me  ;  and  it  seems  better  that  there  should 
be  some  one  whom  you  can  play,  as  it  were,  against 
Huston's  stronger  cards — some  one  of  whom  he  is 
afraid." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  lady  with  an  affectionate 
smile  ;  "  I  quite  understand  your  meaning  ;  and 
I  think  you  are  right,  although  Alfred  Huston  is 
not  an  alarming  person  :  he  is  very  weak." 

''  When  he  is  sober,"  suggested  Trist  signifi- 
cantly. 

The  sailor's  widow  was  too  brave  a  woman  to 
be  frightened  by  this  insinuation,  of  which  she 
took  absolutely  no  notice. 

"  And,"  she  continued,  ''  I  am  convinced  that 
this  reconciliation  is  more  likely  to  be  brought 
about  if  it  is  left  entirely  in  my  hands.  Your  in- 
fluence, however  subtle,  will  be  detected  by  Alfred 
Huston,  and  the  result  will  be  disastrous.  Unlesa 
.  .  .  unless  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  in  a  vague  way,  and  moved  rest- 
lessly. 

"Unless  what?" 

''  Unless  you  go  to  Alfred  Huston  and  convince 
him  by  some  means  that  tliere  is  no  love  between 
you  and  Alice." 

The  laughter  with  which  he  greeted  this  sug- 
gestion was  a  masterpiece  of  easy  nonchalance — 
deep,  melodious,  and  natural  ;  but  somehow 
Mrs.  Wylie  failed  to  join  in  it. 

"No."  he  said;  ''that  would  not  do.  If 
Alice  and  I  went  together,  and  took  all  sorts 
of  solemn  affidavits,  I  doubt  whether  Huston 
would  be  any  more  satisfied  than  he  is  at  present. 
The  only  method  practicable  is  for  me  to  hold 
mvself  in  reserve,  while  vou  manage  this  af- 
fair." 


26o  saSPEA^SE. 

He  had  risen  ilnring  this  speech,  and  now  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I  have  an  appointment  at  the  Army  and 
Navv,"  he  said,  '*  and  must  ask  vou  to  excuse 
me  if  I  run  away." 

Mrs.  VVylie  "'as  left  in  her  own  drawing-room 
nonplussed.  She  gazed  at  tlie  door  which  had 
just  closed  hehind  her  incomprehonsiblo  guest 
with  mild  astonishment. 

''That,"  she  reflected,  ''  is  the  first  time  that 
I  have  seen  Theo  have  recourse  to  retreat." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THK    PHILOSOPHY    OF    THE    SEA. 

It  very  often  happens  that  the  so-called  equi- 
noctial gales  are  behind  their  time,  and  do  not 
arrive  until  Night  has  undoubtedly  made  good 
her  victory  over  Day.  When  such  is  the  case,  we 
have  a  mild  November,  with  soft  southwesterly 
breezes  varying  in  strength  according  to  the  lay 
of  the  land  or  the  individual  experience  of 
farmer  or  townsman.  At  sea  it  blows  hard 
enough  in  all  good  sooth,  and  there  may  be 
watery  eyes  at  tlie  wheel  or  on  the  forecastle  ;  but 
there  are  no  frozen  fingers  aloft,  which  is  in  itself 
a  mercy.  There  is  a  good  hearty  roar  through  the 
shrouds,  and  certain  parts  of  the  deck  are  always 
"wet,  but  the  clear  horizon  and  rushing  clouds 
overhead  are  full  of  brav<'  exhilaration. 

On  land,  things  are  dirtier,  more  especially 
under  foot,  where  the  leaves  lose  all  their  ( rackle 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  SEA.  26f 

and  subside  odorously  into  mud.  Water  stands 
on  the  roadways,  and  in  ruts  elsewhere ;  and 
curled  beech-leaves  float  thereon  in  vague  naviga- 
tion, half  waterlogged  like  any  foreign  timber- 
ship.  The  tilleil  land,  bearing  in  its  bosom  seed 
for  next  year's  crops,  or  merely  waiting  fallow,  is 
damp  and  soft  and  black  ;  men  walking  thereon 
— rustic  or  si^ortsman — make  huge  impressonr;, 
and  carry  quite  a  weight  on  either  foot.  The 
trees  stand  bare  and  leafless,  though  rapid  ^reen 
moldly  growths  relieve  the  wet  monochrome  of 
bark  or  rind. 

Here,  again,  as  at  sea,  the  atmosphere  is  singu- 
larly gay  and  translucent.  Things  afar  off  seem 
near,  and  new  details  in  the  landscape  become 
apparent.  Any  little  bit  of  color  seems  to  gleam, 
almost  to  glow,  and  the  greenness  of  the  meadow 
is  startling.  Although  there  is  an  autumnal  odor 
on  the  breeze,  it  has  no  sense  of  melancholy.  The 
clouds  may  be  gray,  but  they  are  fraught  with  life, 
and  one  knows  that  there  is  brightness  behind. 
With  motion,  melancholy  cannot  live. 

The  effect  of  this  soft  breeziness  upon  different 
])eople  is  apparent  to  the  most  casual  of  observers. 
It  freshens  sailors  up,  and  they  pull  on  their  oil- 
skins with  a  cheery  pugnacity  ;  tillers  of  the  land 
are  busy,  and  wonder  how  long  it  will  last ;  and 
hunting-men  (provided  only  the  laud  be  not  too 
heavy)  are  wild  with  a  joy  which  has  no  rival  in 
times  of  peace  :  timid  riders  grow  bold,  and  bold 
men  reckless.  It  is  only  folks  who  stay  indoors 
that  complain  of  depression.  For  myself,  I  con- 
fess it  makes  me  long  to  be  at  sea,  and  although 
I  can  see  nothing  but  sky  and  chimney-pots  over 
the  inkstand,  the  very  shades  of  color,  of  dark 
and  light,  are  before  me  if  I  close  my  eyes.     It  ia 


26«  SUSPEA^SB. 

a  long  rolling  sweep  of  greeny  gray,  with  hero 
and  tliero  a  tip  of  dirty  white,  and  the  line  of  hori- 
zon is  hard  and  clear  enough  to  please  the  veriest 
novice  with  the  sextant. 

In  November,  1876,  there  were  a  few  days  of 
such  weather  as  I  have  attempted  to  describe',  and 
Brenda,  who  spent  tluit  time  on  the  east  coast  of 
England,  in  a  manner  learnt  to  associate  soft  winds 
..'.nd  clear  airs  with  the  mnch-nsaligned  county  of 
;7nlfolk.  All  through  tlio  rest  of  her  life,  through 
';he  long  aimless  years  during  which  she  learnt  to 
luve  the  verdant  plains  with  their  bare  mud  sea- 
walls, she  only  thought  of  Suffolk  as  connected 
with  and  forming  part  of  soft  autumnal  melan- 
choly. She  never  again  listened  to  the  wail  of 
the  sea-gull  without  involuntarily  waiting  for  the 
cheery  cry  of  the  snipe.  Never  again  did  she  look 
on  a  vast  plain  without  experiencing  a  sense  of 
incompleteness  whiclt  could  only  have  been  dis- 
pelled by  tho  murmurous  voice  of  the  sea  breaking 
on  to  rhingle. 

The  human  mind  is  strangely  inconsistent  in 
its  reception  and  retention  of  impressions.  As  in 
modern  photography,  the  length  of  exposure  seema 
to  be  of  little  consequence.  Without  any  tangible 
reason,  and  for  no  obvious  use,  certain  incidents 
remain  engraved  upon  our  memory,  while  the  de- 
tail of  other  events  infinitely  more  important  passes 
away,  and  only  the  result  remains. 

Brenda  and  Alice  only  passed  four  days  in  the 
little  hamlet  selected  for  them  l\y  Theodore  Trist 
as  a  safe  hiding-place  ;  but  during  that  time  a 
great  new  influence  came  into  Brenda's  soul. 

She  had  always  been  sensitive  to  the  beauties  of 
Nature.  A  glorious  landscape,  a  golden  sunset, 
or  the  soft  silver  of  moon-rise,  had  spoken  to  her 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  SEA.  263 

in  that  silent  language  of  Nature  which  appeals 
to  the  most  prosaic  heart  at  times  ;  but  never  until 
now  had  one  of  earth's  great  wonders  established 
a  longing  in  her  soul — a  longing  for  its  constant 
compaiiy  which  is  naught  else  but  passionate  love. 
She  had  hitherto  looked  upon  the  sea  as  an  incon- 
venience to  be  overcome  before  reaching  other 
countries.  Perhaps  she  was  aware  that  this  incon- 
venience possessed  at  times  a  charm,  but  not  until 
now  had  she  conceived  it  possible  that  she,  Brenda 
Gilholme,  should  ever  love  it  with  an  insatiable 
longing  such  as  the  love  of  sailors.  On  board  the 
Hermione  she  had  passed  her  apprenticeship  ; 
had,  as  the  admiral  was  wont  to  say,  learnt  the 
ropes  ;  but  never  had  she  loved  the  sea  for  its  own 
grand  incomprehensible  sake  as  she  loved  it  now. 

Its  gray  mournful  humors  seemed  to  sympathize 
with  her  own  thoughts.  Its  monotonous  voice, 
rising  and  falling  on  the  shingle  shore,  spoke  in 
unmistakable  language,  and  told  of  other  things 
than  mere  earthly  joys  and  sorrows. 

I  who  write  these  lines  learnt  to  love  the  sea 
many  years  ago,  when  I  had  naught  else  but 
Avater  to  look  upon — from  day  to  day,  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  through  the  day  and  through  the 
darkness,  week  after  week,  month  after  month. 
The  love  crept  into  my  heart  slowly  and  very 
surely,  like  the  love  of  a  boy,  growing  into  man- 
hood, for  some  little  maiden  growing  by  his 
side.  And  now,  whether  on  its  bosom  or  looking 
on  it  from  the  noisy  shore,  that  love  is  as  fresh  as 
ever.  The  noise  of  breaking  water  thrills  the 
man  as  it  thrilled  the  boy — the  smell  of  tar,  even, 
makes  me  grave. 

Men  may  love  their  own  country,  but  the  sea, 
with  its  every-varying  humors,    kind   and    crue) 


2G4  SUSPENSE. 

by  tarn,  exacts  a  fuller  devotion.  A  woman  once 
told  me  of  her  love  for  her  native  country.  She 
happened  to  be  a  practical,  prosaic,  middle-aged 
woman  of  the  world.  We  were  seated  on  a  gor- 
geous sofa  in  a  blaze  of  artificial  light,  amidst 
artificial  smiles,  listening  to  the  murmurs  of  arti- 
ficial c<.>nversation.  Something  nuAcd  her  ;  some 
word  of  mine  fell  into  the  well  of  her  memory  and 
set  the  still  })ool  all  rippling.  I  listened  in  silence. 
She  spoke  of  Dartmoor,  and  I  think  I  understood 
her.     At  the  end  I  said  : 

"  What  Dartmoor  is  to  you,  the  sea  is  to  me  ;  '' 
and  she  smiled  in  a  strange,  sympatiietic  way. 

That  is  tlie  nearest  approach  that  I  have  met  of 
a  love  for  land  which  is  akin  to  the  love  of  sea. 

In  Brenda's  case,  as  in  all,  this  new-found 
passion  influenced  her  very  nature.  If  love — love, 
1  mean,  of  a  woman — will  alter  a  man's  whole 
mode  of  life,  of  action,  and  of  thought,  surely 
these  lesser  passions  leave  their  mark  as  well. 

Undoubtedly  the  girl  caught  from  the  great 
Mea  some  of  its  patient  contentment  ;  for  the 
ocean  is  always  content,  whether  it  be  glisten- 
ing beneath  a  cloudless  sky,  or  rolling,  sweeping 
onwards  before  the  wind  in  broad  gray  curves. 
Those  who  work  upon  the  great  waters  are  differ- 
ent from  other  men  in  the  possession  of  a  certain 
calm  equanimity,  which  is  like  no  other  condition 
of  mind.     It  is  the  philosophy  of  the  sea. 

At  first  Breuda  had  dreaded  the  thought  of 
being  imprisoned,  as  it  were,  in  this  tiny  east  coast 
fishing  village  with  her  sister.  This  was  no  out- 
come of  a  waning  love,  but  rather  a  proof  that  her 
feelings  toward  her  sister  were  as  true  and  loyal 
as  ever.  She  feared  that  Alice  would  lower  her- 
.self   iu   her   sight.     She   dreaded  the    necessary 


TUE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  SEA.  ^65 

tete-il-tt'tes  because  she  felt  that  her  sister's  char- 
acter had  not  improved,  and  could  not  well  bear 
the  searching  light  of  a  close  familiarity. 
_  After  the  first  hour  or  two,  however,  the 
sisters  appeared  to  settle  down  into  a  routine  of 
life  which  in  no  way  savored  of  familiarity. 
The  last  two  years  had  hopelessly  severed  them, 
and  now  that  they  were  alone  together  the  gulf 
seemed  to  widen  between  them. 

Brenda  was  aware  that  some  great  change  had 
come  over  her  life  or  that  of  her  sister.  They  no 
longer  possessed  a  single  taste  or  a  single  interest  in 
common.  Whether  the  fault  lay  entirely  at  her 
own  door,  or  whether  Alice  were  partially  or 
wholly  to  blame,  the  girl  did  not  attempt  to  de- 
cide. She  merely  felt  that  it  would  be  simple 
hypocrisy  to  pretend  a  familiarity  she  did  not 
feeh  Yet  she  loved  her  sister,  despite  all.  The 
tie  of  blood  is  strangely  strong  in  some  people  ; 
with  others  it  is  no  link  at  all. 

After  an  uncomfortable  meal  had  been  brave- 
ly sat  out  subsequent  to  Brenda's  arrival,  the 
younger  sister  announced  her  intention  of  going 
out  for  a  long  raml)le  down  the  coast.  Alice 
complained  th;it  she  had  no  energy,  predicted 
that  the  dismal  flat  land  and  muddy  sea  were 
about  to  prove  fatal  to  her  health,  and  subsided 
into  a  yellow-backed  novel.  This  was  a  fair 
sample  of  their  life  in  exile. 

Alice  deluged  her  weak  intellect  with  fiction  of 
no  particular  merit,  and  Brenda  learnt  to  love  the 
sea.  For  her  the  bleak  deserted  shore,  the  long, 
low  waves  rolling  in  continnously,  the  dirty 
sweeping  of  sand-banks  near  the  shore,  and 
the  endless  fields  of  shingle,  acquired  a  mourn- 
fnl  beauty  which  few  can  find  in  such  things. 


j66  SUSPEA'Sk. 

Only  once  was  reference  made  to  Theodore 
Trist,  and  then  the  subject  was  tacitly  tabooed, 
much  to  the  relief  of  Brenda.  This  hai^pened 
during  the  first  evening  of  their  joint  exile. 
Doubtless  a  sudden  fit  of  communicativeness 
name  over  Alice  just  as  they  come  to  the  rest  of 
us — at  odd  moments,  without  any  particular  raison 
Teti-e. 

'I'he  miserable  shuffling  waiter  had  removed  all 
traces  of  their  simple  evening  meal,  and  Brenda 
was  looking  between  the  curtains  across  the  sea, 
which  shimmered  beneath  the  rays  of  a  great 
yellow  moon.  Alice  had  taken  up  her  novel,  but 
its  pages  had  no  interest  for  her  just  then.  She 
had  appropriated  the  only  easy-chair  in  the  room, 
and  was  leaning  back  against  its  worn  leather 
stuffing  with  a  discontented  look  upon  her  lovely 
face.  Her  small  red  mouth  had  acquired  of  late 
a  peculiar  "  set"  expression,  as  if  tlie  lips  were 
habitually  pressed  close  with  an  effort, 

"  Theo,"  she  said,  without  looking  toward  the 
tall,  slim  form  by  the  window,  "  has  changed." 

Brenda  moved  the  curtain  a  little  more  to  one 
side,  so  that  the  old  wooden  rings  rattled  on 
the  pole.  Then  she  leant  her  shoulder  against 
the  framework  of  the  window,  and  turned  her 
face  toward  the  firelight.  Her  gentle  gaze  rested 
on  the  beautiful  form  gracefully  reclining  in 
the  deep  chair.  She  noted  the  easy  repose  of 
each  limb,  the  proud  ])oise  of  the  golden  head, 
and  the  clear-cut  profile  showing  white  against 
the  dingy  background.  There  was  no  glamour 
ill  her  eyes,  such  as  would  have  blinded  the 
judgment  of  nine  men  out  of  ten  :  but  there  was 
in  its  place  the  great  tie  of  sisterly  love. 

Brenda,  looking  on  that  beauty,  knew  that  it 


THE  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  SEA.         367 

was  the  curse  of  her  sister's  life.  Instead  of  envy- 
ing her,  she  was  mentally  meting  out  pity  and 
allowance. 

'*  I  suppose,"  she  said,  without  much  en- 
couragement in  her  manner,  "  that  we  have  all 
changed  in  one  way  or  another/* 

"■  But  Theo  has  changed  in  more  than  one 
way. " 

''Has  he?" 

"Yes.  His  manner  is  quite  different  from 
what  it  used  to  be  ;  and  he  seems  self-absorbed — 
less  energetic,  less  sympathetic." 

Brenda  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  turned 
slightly,  and  looked  out  of  the  window,  resting  her 
fingers  upon  the  old  wooden  framework. 

"  You  see,"  she  suggested,  '•'  he  has  other  in- 
terests in  life  now.  He  is  a  great  man,  and  has 
ambition.  It  is  only  natural  that  he  should  be 
absorbed  in  his  own  affairs." 

Mrs.  Huston  raised  her  small  foot,  and  rested 
the  heel  of  her  slipper  on  the  brass  fender,  while 
she  contemplated  the  diminutive  limb  with  some 
satisfaction. 

"  I  have  met  one  or  two  great  men,"  she  said 
meditatively,  ''and  I  invariably  found  them  very 
much  like  ordinary  beings,  rather  less  immersed 
in  'shop,'  perhaps,  and  quite  as  interesting — not 
to  say  polite." 

Brenda  winced. 

"Was  Theo  not  polite  ?" 

"  Hardly,  my  dear." 

As  Mrs.  Huston  delivered  herself  of  this  opinion, 
with  a  faint  tinge  of  bitterness  in  her  manner,  she 
turned  and  looked  toward  her  sister,  as  if  chal- 
lenging her  to  attempt  a  palliation  of  Trist's  con* 
duct. 


268  SUSPENSE, 

Brenda  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  The  moon- 
light, flooding  through  tlie  diamond  panes  of  the 
wmdow,  made  her  face  look  pale  and  Avan.  There 
were  deep  shadows  about  her  lips.  AVithout,  upon 
the  shingle,  the  sea  boomed  continuously  with  a 
low,  dreamlike  hopelessness. 

I  wish  I  were  a  great  artist,  to  be  able  to  paint 
a  picture  of  that  small  parlor  in  an  east  coast  vil- 
lage inn.  ihit  there  would  be  a  greater  skill  re- 
quired than  the  mere  technicalities  of  art.  These 
would  bo  needed  to  deal  successfullv  with  the  cross- 
lights  of  utterly  different  hues— the  cold,  green- 
tinted  moonlight,  tlie  ruddy  glow  of  burning  drift- 
wood washed  from  the  deck  of  some  Baltic  tiader  ; 
and  the  reflection  of  each  in  turn  upon  quaint  old 
bureaux,  bright  with  the  polish  of  half  a  dozen 
generations  ;  gleaming  upon  Indian  curio,  and 
shimniering  over  the  glass  of  dim  engravings. 
All  this  would  require  infinite  skill  :  but  no  brush 
or  pencil  could  convey  the  old-day  mournfulness 
that  seemed  to  hang  in  the  jitmosphere.  Perhaps 
it  found  birth  in  the  murniuring  rise  and  fall  of 
restless  waves,  or  in  the  flicker  of  the  fire,  in  the 
quick  crackle  of  the  sodden  wood.  My  picture 
should  be  called  "  The  Contrast,""  and  in  the 
gloom  of  the  low  ceiling  1  should  bring  out  with 
loving  care  two  graceful  forms — two  lovely  faces. 

The  one — the  more  beautiful — in  all  the  rosiness 
of  young  life,  glowing  in  the  firelight.  The  other, 
pale  and  wan,  with  an  exquisite  beauty,  delicate 
and  yet  strong,  resolute  and  yet  refined.  Of  two 
working  in  the  field,  one  is  taken,  the  other  re- 
maineth.  Around  us  are  many  workers,  and  of 
every  two  we  look  upon,  one  seems  to  have  the 
preference.  One  has  greater  joy,  the  other 
greater  sorrow  ;  and,  strive  as  we  will,  tliink  as 


CROSS-PURPOSES.  269 

we  will,  argue  as  we  will,  we  can  never  tell  "  why." 
We  can  never  satisfy  that  great  question  of  the 
human  mind.  Life  has  been  called  many  things  ; 
I  can  express  it  in  less  than  a  word — in  a  mere 
symbol — ? — a  note  of  interrogation,  the  largest  at 
the  compositor's  command. 

In  this  great  field  of  ours,  where  we  all  work 
blindly,  many  are  taken,  and  many  left.  More- 
over, those  who  Avonld  Avish  to  go  remain,  and 
those  who  cling  to  work  are  taken.  She  who 
grindeth  best  passeth  first. 

Brenda  never  answered  her  sister's  challenge. 
She  turned  her  eyes  away,  facing  the  cold  moon- 
light, staring  at  the  silver  sea  with  eyes  that  saw 
no  beauty  there. 

"  0  God  I  '•  she  whispered,  glancing  upward 
into  the  glowing  heavens  with  that  instinct  which 
comes  alike  to  pagan  and  Christian,  ''send  a  great 
war,  so  that  Theo  may  go  to  it." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CROSS-PURPOSES. 

Mrs.  Wylie  had  undertaken  the  task  of  recon- 
ciling Alice  Huston  and  her  husband  without  any 
great  hope  of  success.  The  widow's  married  life 
had  been  an  exceptionally  happy  one,  but  even  in 
her  case  there  had  been  small  drawbacks,  mostly 
arising,  it  is  true,  from  the  untoward  work  of 
fate,  but,  nevertheless,  undoubted  drawbacks,  and 
undeniably  appertaining  to  married  life. 

It  would  have  been  liard  to  find  two  people  less 


270  SUSPENSE. 

oalcnlaied  to  assimilate  satisfactorilj'  than  Alice 
and  Alfred  Huston  ;  and  yet  there  was  love  be- 
tween them.  Tlie  weak-minded  soldier  undoubt- 
edly loved  his  wife  :  as  for  her,  it  would  be  hard 
to  give  a  reliable  opinion.  Siie  was,  I  honestly 
believe,  one  of  those  beautiful  women  who  go 
through  life  without  ever  knowing  what  love 
really  is. 

With  another  woman  for  his  helpmate,  Huston 
might  reasonably  have  been  expected  to  reform 
his  ways.  With  another  husband,  Alice  might 
have  made  a  good  and  dutiful  wife. 

Assuredly  the  task  that  had  fallen  upon  Mrs. 
Wylie's  handsome  shoulders  was  not  overburdened 
with  hope.  She  was,  however,  of  an  evenly  san- 
guine temperament,  and  I  think  that  it  is  such 
women  as  she  who  helj)  us  men  along  in  life 
— women  who  trust  for  the  best,  and  work  for  the 
best,  without  any  high-flown  ideals,  without  poetic 
notions  respecting  woman's  influence  and  woman's 
aid  ;  who,  in  fact,  are  desperately  practical,  and 
make  a  point  of  expecting  less  than  they  might 
reasonablv  get. 

Mrs.  Wylie  was  by  no  means  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  a  reconciliation  between  such  a  couple 
as  jMr.  and  Mrs.  Huston  was  not  calculated  to  be 
of  a  very  permanent  or  deeply-rooted  character  ; 
but  she  had  lived  a  good  many  years  in  a  grade 
of  society  which  delights  to  watch  the  inner  life 
of  others.  She  had  seen  and  heard  of  so  many 
unsuitable  matches,  which,  having  been  consum- 
mated, had  proved  the  wonderful  power  of  love. 
It  is  only  the  very  young  and  inexperienced  who 
shake  their  heads  upon  hearing  of  an  engagement, 
and  prophesy  unhappiness.  No  man  can  tell  to 
what  end  love  is  working.     The  wise  are  silent  i« 


CROSS- PUR  POSES.  27 1 

such  matters,  because  there  are  some  mistakes 
which  lead  to  good,  and  some  wise  actions  of 
which  the  result  is  unmitigated  woe. 

The  widow  therefore  held  her  peace,  and  set  to 
work  as  if  there  could  be  but  one  result  to  her 
efforts.  She  communicated  with  Alice  Huston 
in  her  hiding-place,  with  Captain  Huston  at  the 
club  of  whicii  he  was  still  a  member,  and  with 
Trist  by  word  of  mouth.  Brenda  was,  so  to  speak, 
in  the  enemy's  country.  Her  reports  were  there- 
fore to  be  received,  but  no  acknowledgment  could 
be  made.  In  this  respect  slie  was  like  a  spy,  be- 
cause she  was  without  instruction  from  headquar- 
ters, and,  nevertheless,  had  to  act  and  report  her 
action. 

Her  first  and,  indeed,  only  communication 
reached  Mrs.  Wylie  the  morning  after  her  inter- 
views with  Theo  Trist  and  Captain  Huston.  It 
was  only  a  few  words  scribbled  on  the  back  of  a 
visiting  card,  and  slipped  into  an  envelope  pre- 
viously addressed  and  stamped  : 

"  Whatever  you  do,  keep  Theo  and  Alice  apart/' 

Mrs.  Wylie  turned  the  card  over  and  read  the 
neatly-engraved  name  on  the  other  side.  Then 
she  read  the  words  aloud,  slowly  and  thoughtfully, 
once  more  : 

"  Whatever  you  do,  keep  Theo  and  Alice  apart." 

"  Brenda  knows,"  reflected  the  practical  woman 
of  the  world,  ''  that  Huston  is  jealous  of  Theo. 
She  also  knows  that  I  am  quite  aware  of  this  jeal- 
ousy. It  would  be  unnecessary  to  warn  me  of  it ; 
therefore  this  means  that  Brenda  has  discovered 
a  fresh  reason." 

She  broke  off  her  meditations  at  this  point  by 


272 


SUSPENSE. 


I'ising  almost  hurriedly,  and  walkiug  to  the  win- 
dow. For  a  considerable  time  she  watched  the 
passing  traffic ;  then  she  returned  to  the  fire- 
place. 

''Poor  Brenda  1  "  she  niurmnred — •'•'my  poor 
Brenda  !     And   .   .   .    Alice  is  so  silly  I " 

The  connection  between  these  two  observations 
may  be  a  trifle  obscni-e  to  the  ordinary  halting 
male  intellect  :  but  I  tliiuk  1  know  what  ^Irs. 
AVylie  meant. 

Later  on  in  the  day  she  sent  a  note  to  Captain 
Huston,  requesting  him  to  come  and  see  her,  and 
by  the  same  messenger  despatched  a  few  words  to 
Theo  Trist — her  reserve  force — forbidding  him  i(» 
come  near, 

"  My  reserves."*  she  said  to  herself  as  she  closed 
the  envelope  energetically,  •'  are  thus  reudercti 
useless  but  l^renda  is  reliable.  I  must  do  as  she 
tells  me." 

Captain  Huston  received  the  widow's  note  at 
his  club.  It  was  only  elevei\  o'clock,  and,  conse- 
qnently,  there  was  plenty  of  time  before  he  need 
put  in  an  appearance  at  Suffolk  Mansions.  lie 
was  an  idle  man,  and,  like  all  idle  men.  fond  of 
lounging  about  the  streets  gazing  abstracte(^ly 
into  shops,  and  getting  generally  into  tlie  way  of 
such  foot-passengers  as  might  have  an  object  in 
their  walk. 

There  is  no  haven  for  loungers  h\  London  ex- 
cept Piccadilly  in  the  morning,  and  to  this  spot 
the  soldier  turned  his  steps.  After  inspecting 
the  wares  of  a  sporting  tailor,  he  was  preparing  to 
cross  the  road  with  a  view  of  directing  his  course 
down  St.  James's  Street,  when  some  one  touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

Huston  turned  with  rather  more  alacrity  than 


CROSS-PURPOSES.  2-]% 

is  usually  displayed  by  a  British  gentleman  with 
a  clear  conscience,  and  for  some  seconds  gazed  in  a 
watery  manner  at  a  fair,  insipid  face,  ornamenteil 
by  a  wondrous  mustache.  There  was  a  pecu- 
liarity about  this  mustache  Avorth  mentioning. 
Although  an  essentially  masculine  adornment,  it, 
in  some  subtle  way.  suggested  effeminacy, 

'■'  Mr.  .  .  .  eh  ,  .  .  Hicks,"  murmured  Hus- 
ton, vaguely,  and  withont  much  interest. 

Hicks  forgave  magnanimously  tliis  Philistine 
want  of  appreciation. 

•'  Yes,  Captain  Huston.     How  are  yon  ?  " 

••  I  ?  ...  Oh  :  I'm  all  right,  thanks." 

There  was  a  faint  suggestion  of  movement 
about  the  soldier's  left  leg  as  if  intimating  a  desire 
to  continue  on  its  way  toward  St.  James's  Street ; 
but  this  was  ignored  by  Hicks  in  his  own  inimi- 
table way. 

"  I  caught  sight  of  you  the  other  day,"  he  said 
graciously  ;  "  and  I  also  had  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing Mrs.  Huston  at  Mrs.  Wylie's," 

"  Oh,  yes,"  vaguely. 

The  soldier  made  a  violent  effort,  pulled  himself 
together,  and  stepped  into  the  road.  The  artist 
stepped  with  him,  and,  furthermore,  slipped  his 
gloved  hand  within  his  companion's  arm  with  a 
familiar  ease  which  seemed  to  say  that  they  M'ould 
live  or  die  together  until  the  passage  was  safely 
accomplished. 

*' How  is  Mrs.  Huston?''  inquired  he,  when 
they  had  reached  the  opposite  pavement. 

That  lady's  husband  looked  very  stolid  as  he 
answered  : 

"Quite  well,  thanks,'' 

He    mentally    wriggled,    poor   fellow,   and    in 
Bvmpathv  his  arm  became  lifeless  and  repelling. 
i8  ' 


i74-  SLTSPENSE. 

Hicks  removed  his  hand  from  the  unappreciative 
sleeve. 

''Do  you  know,"  he  asked  pleasanth',  "'  whether 
Trist  happens  to  be  in  to\vi\  ?  " 

Huston  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  He  M-as 
afraid  of  this  society  prig,  and  lionestly  wished  to 
save  his  wife's  name  from  the  ready  tongue  of 
slander. 

"  I  don't,"  he  answered  abruptly — "  why  ?  " 

This  sudden  question  in  no  way  disconcerted 
Hicks,  who  met  the  soldier's  unsteady,  and  would- 
be  severe,  gaze  with  bland  innocence. 

"Because  I  happen  to  know  a  Russian  artist 
who  is  very  anxious  to  meet  him,  that  is  all." 

"  Ah  I  I  have  seen  him  since  I  came  liome,  but 
I  could  not  say  Avhere  he  is  now." 

If  Hicks  had  been  a  really  observant  man  (such 
as  he  devoutly  considered  himself  to  be),  he  would 
liave  noticed  that  his  companion  raised  a  gloved 
finger  to  his  cheek,  and  tenderly  pressed  a  slight 
abrasion  visible  still  just  on  the  bone  in  front  of 
the  ear. 

"  He  is  generally  to  be  lieard  of,"  said  the  artist 
in  that  innocently-significant  tone  which  may 
mean  much  or  nothing,  according  to  the  acuteness 
or  foreknowledge  of  tlie  listener,  "...  he  is 
generally  to  be  heard  of  at  Suffolk  Mansions. 
That  is  to  say,  wlien  Brcnda  is  staying  there." 

Captain  Huston's  dull  eyes  were  for  a  moment 
.•ictnally  endowed  with  life.  He  stroked  his  droop- 
ing mustache,  which  was  apparently  placed  there 
by  a  merciful  Providence  for  purposes  of  justifi- 
able concealment,  and  his  moral  attitude  became 
visibly  milder.  He  had  iust  begun  to  realize  that 
his  own  private  affairs  might  not,  after  all,  be  of 
paramount  importance  to  the  whole  of  society. 


CI?OSS-PVI?PCSES.  2-;^ 

'^Is  there,"  he  asked  with  military  nonchalance, 
**  supposed  to  be  sometiiing  between  Trist  and 
Brenda?" 

Hicks  laughed,  and,  before  replying,  waved  his 
hand  gracefully  to  a  friend  in  the  stock- jobbing 
line,  wlio  had  previously  crossed  the  road  in  order 
to  be  recognized  by  hira  in  passing. 

"  Oh,  no,"  ho  answered  cheerfully  ;  "I  did  not 
mean  that  at  all.  Now  that  I  think  of  it,  how- 
ever, you  were  quite  justified  in  taking  it  thus. 
They  have  always  been  great  friends — that  was  all 
I  meant.     Their  mothers  v/ere  related,  I  believe." 

Captain  Huston  looked  slightly  disappointed. 
He  did  not,  however,  display  such  eagerness  to 
walk  either  faster  or  slower,  or  in  some  other  di- 
rection, now. 

"  Trist,"  he  observed  as  he  opened  his  cigar-case 
sociably,  "  is  a  queer  fellow.     Have  a  cigar  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  never  smoke,  you  know — never.  No, 
thanks." 

The  captain  grunted,  and  put  his  case  back  with 
a  suppressed  sigh.  He  had  not  known,  but  hoped. 
Then  he  waited  for  a  reply  to  his  leading  and  am- 
biguous remark. 

*'  Yes,"  mused  Hicks  at  length  ;  "  he  is.  I 
dined  with  him  the  night  he  left  for  the  Servian 
frontier." 

This  detail,  interesting  as  it  was,  had  but  slight 
reference  to  the  general  characteristics  of  Theo- 
dore Trist.  Huston  tried  again  after  he  had 
lighted  his  cigar." 

*'  One  never  knows  where  one  has  him." 

Hicks  looked  mildly  sympathetic.  He  even 
gave  the  impression  of  being  about  to  look  in  his 
pockets  on  the  chance  of  finding  the  war-corre- 
spondent there, 


a  76  SUSPENSE. 


tt 


No  ;  he  is  always  on  the  move.  I  was  once 
told  that  the  Diplomatic  Corps  call  him  the  Stormy 
Petrel,  because  he  arrives  before  the  hurricane. 

"And  sits  smiling  on  the  top  of  the  waves 
afterward,  Avhilc  we  poor  devils  sink,"  added  the 
soldier  Avith  a  disagreeable  laugh. 

*'  He  lias  not  the  reputation  of  being  a  coward,'' 
said  Hicks,  who  despised  personal  courage  as  a 
mere  brutelike  attribute. 

The  man  of  arms  did  not  like  the  turn  of  the 
conversation. 

""No  ;  I  believe  not,"  he  said  ratlier  hurriedly, 
;is  if  no  man  could  be  a  coward.  "  What  I  don't 
like  about  him  is  a  certain  air  of  mystery  which 
he  cultivates.     It  pleases  the  women,  I  suppose." 

"That," suggested  the  other  calmly,  "  is  prob- 
ably part  of  his  trade.  If  he  talked  much  there 
would  be  nothing  original  left  in  him  to  write  !  All 
these  diplomatic  fellows  get  that  peculiar  reticence 
of  manner — a  sort  of  want  of  frankness,  as  it 
were.  That  is  the  great  difference  between  art 
practised  by  the  tongue  and  art  stimulated  by  the 
eye  and  created  for  the  pleasure  of  the  eye." 

Huston  looked  at  the  burning  end  of  his  ci2:ar 
with  bibulous  concentration.  He  knew  absolutely 
nothing  about  art,  and  cared  less.  It  is  just  pos- 
sible that,  in  his  hideous  ignorance,  he  doubted 
the  purity  of  the  pleasure  vouchsafed  by  the  pic- 
torial productions  of  the  artist  at  his  side. 

"  }Ve,"  continued  Hicks,  with  a  deprecating 
wave  of  the  hand,  "  can  always  be  frank.  The 
bolder  we  are,  the  higher  we  aim,  the  ...  eh 
.  .  .  the  better." 

"  Yes  .  .  .  yes,"  murmured  Huston.  "  But 
tell  me — what  made  you  think  that  Trist  was  out 
of  town  ?  " 


CROSS-PURPOSES.  2'j'j 


t( 


Oh,  nothing  !  "  airil3^  '^  Nobody  stays  in 
town  at  this  time  of  year  unless  they  can't  help 
it  ;  that  is  all  !  But  I  suppose  these  newspaper 
men  hardly  think  of  the  seasons.  They  do  not 
seem  to  realize  the  difference  between  summer  and. 
winter — between  joyous  spring  and  dismal  autun)n. 
I  saw  a  man  sketching  the  other  day  in  a  cold  east 
wind  on  the  Thames  Embankment.  He  was  only 
a  'black  and  white'  man,  you  know;  but  he 
seemed  to  know  something  about  drawing.  His 
fingers  were  blue." 

Like  many  weak-minded  people,  Alfred  Huston 
was  subject  to  sudden  fits  of  obstinacy.  He  felt 
now  that  Hicks  wished  to  lead  him  away  from  the 
subject  originally  under  discussion,  and  in  conse- 
quence was  instigated  by  a  sudden  desire  to  talk 
and  hear  more  of  Theodore  Trist. 

"That  is  another  thing,"  he  said,  ''about  Trist 
that  I  do  not  like.  He  pretends  to  despise  per- 
sonal discomfort.  It  is  mere  affectation,  of  course, 
and  on  that  account,  perhaps,  all  the  moi'e  aggra- 
vating. '' 

"  Carried  away  by  enthusiasm,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  soldier  laughed. 

"  Trist  never  was  carried  away  by  anything. 
He  sits  on  a  box  of  cartridges,  and  writes  in  that 
beastly  note-book  of  his  as  if  he  were  at  a  review. 
If  all  his  countrymen  were  being  slaughtered 
round  him  he  would  count  them  with  his  pencil 
and  take  a  note  of  it." 

Hicks  gave  a  few  moments'  careful  attention  to 
the  curl  of  his  mustache.  Then  he  glanced  cu- 
riously at  his  companion's  vacant  physiognomy. 
There  was  evidently  some  motive  in  this  sudden 
attack  on  Trist.  Both  these  men  distrusted  the 
war-correspondent,  but  were  in  no  way  prepared 


27S  SUSPENSE. 

to  test  the  value  of  that  force  which  is  said  to  arise 
from  union.     Thcv  distrusted  each  other  more. 

Presently  they  jiarted,  each  absorbed  in  his  own 
selfish  fears  as  before.  Here,  again,  was  Vanity 
and  her  hideous  sister  Jealousy,  If  one  of  these 
be  not  found  at  tlie  bottom  of  all  human  misery, 
I  tliink  you  will  find  the  other.  With  these  two 
men  both  motives  were  at  work.  Each  was  jealous 
of  Trist,  and  neither  would  confess  liis  jealousy  to 
the  other  ;  while  Vanity  was  wounded  by  the  war- 
correspondent's  simple  silence.  He  ignored  them, 
and  for  that  they  hated  him.  His  own  path  was 
apparently  mapped  out  in  front  of  him,  and  he 
followed  it  without  ostentation,  without  seeking 
comment  or  approbation. 

William  Hicks  was,  as  Mrs.  Wylie  had  said,  find- 
ing his  own  level.  He  was  beginning  to  come 
under  the  influence  of  a  vague  misgiving  that  his 
individuality  was  not  such  as  commands  the  re- 
spect of  the  better  sort  of  women.  In  his  own 
circle  he  was  a  demi-gqd  ;  but  the  gratification  to 
be  gathered  from  the  worship  of  a  number  of  weak- 
kneed  uncomely  ladies  was  beginning  to  pall.  In 
fact,  he  had  hitherto  been  intensely  satisfied  with 
the  interesting  creature  called  AVilliam  Hicks; 
but  now  there  was  a  tiny  rift  within  the  lute  upon 
which  he  always  played  liis  own  praises.  He  iiad 
not  hitherto  realized  that  man  is  scarcely  created 
for  the  purpose  of  being  worshiped  by  the  weaker 
sex,  and  lately  there  had  b(!on  in  his  mind  a  vague 
desire  to  be  of  greater  account  among  his  fellow- 
men.  Of  athletics,  sport,  or  the  more  manly  ac- 
complishments he  knew  notliing  ;  indeed,  he  had 
np  to  this  period  despised  them  as  the  pastime  of 
creatures  possessed  of  little  or  no  intellect ;  now 
he  was  at  times  troubled  by  a  haunting  thought 


CA'OSS-P(/A'POS£S. 


279 


that  it  would  have  been  as  well  had  he  been  able  to 
play  lawn-tennis,  to  ride,  or  shoot,  or  row,  or  drive 
— or  even  walk  ten  miles  at  a  stretch.  This  was 
not  the  outcome  of  any  natural  taste  for  healthy 
exercise,  but  a  mere  calculation  that  such  accom- 
plishments carry  with  them  a  certain  weight  with 
energetic  and  well-found  young  ladies.  The  curse 
of  jealousy  has  a  singular  way  of  opening  our  eyes, 
mes  freres,  to  sundry  small  shortcomings  of  which 
we  were  not  aware  before.  When  I  saw  Angelina, 
for  instance,  dance  with  young  Lightfoot  in  former 
days,  my  own  fantastic  toes  suddenly  became 
conscious  of  clumsiness.  Hicks  was  jealous  of 
Theodore  Trist,  and  while,  in  a  half-hearted  way, 
despising  the  sturdy  philosopher's  soldierlike 
manliness,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  Brenda 
Gilholme  admired  Trist  for  this  same  qualit}'.  He 
was  fully  satisfied  that  he  was  in  every  other  way 
a  superior  man  to  the  war-correspondent,  although 
the  latter  had  made  a  deep  mark  upon  the  road 
he  had  selected  to  travel  ;  but  he  wished,  never- 
theless, that  he  himself  could  assume  at  times  the 
quiet  strength  of  independence  that  cliaracterized 
Trist's  thoughts  and  actions. 

The  young  artist  was  celebrated  in  his  own 
circle — that  is  to  sav.  among  a  certain  coterie  of 
would-be  artistic  souls,  whose  talents  ran  more 
into  words  than  into  action.  Tliey  admired  each 
other  aloud,  and  themselves  Avith  a  silent  adoration 
wonderful  to  behold.  Most  of  them  possessed 
sufficient  means  to  live  an  idle,  self-indulgent  life 
in  a  small  Avay.  Such  pleasures  as  they  could  not 
afford  were  conveniently  voted  unprofitable  and 
earthly.  They  hung  upon  the  outskirts  of  the 
best  society,  and  were  past-masters  in  the  art  of 
confusing  the  terms   "  having  met"  and  "  know- 


28o  StfSPENSF.. 

ing  "  H,-  applied  to  living  celebrities.  Among  theai 
were  artists  who  had  never  exhibited  a  picture, 
authors  who  had  never  sold  a  book,  and  singers 
who  had  never  faced  an  audience.  The  vulgar 
crowd  failed  to  appreciate  them,  and  those  who 
painted  and  .-^old,  wrote  and  published,  sang  and 
made  money,  tolerantly  laughed  at  them.  Hicks 
was  clever  enough  to  know  that  liis  mind  was  in 
reality  of  a  slightly  superior  order,  and  weak 
enough  to  value  its  superiority  much  more  highly 
than  it  deserved.  Me  was  undoul)tedly  a  clever 
fellow  in  his  wav,  l)ut  a  moderate  income  and  a 
doting  mother  had  combined  to  kill  in  him  that 
modicum  of  ambition  whii^h  is  required  to  make 
men  push  forward  continuously  in  the  race  of  life. 
Had  he  been  coini>ellod  to  work  for  his  daily  bread, 
he  might  have  been  saved  from  the  clutches  of 
London  society  ;  but  as  a  rising  young  artist,  with 
pleasant  manners  and  some  social  accomplish- 
ments, he  was  received  with  open  arms,  and  suc- 
cumbed to  the  enervating  round  of  so-called  pleas- 
ure.    He  continued  to  be  '••  rising."  but  never  rose. 

Hicks  did  not  confess  deliberately  to  liimself 
that  he  was  in  love  with  Brenda  Gilliolme.  but  he 
made  no  pretense  of  ignoring  the  fact  that  she 
occupied  in  his  thoughts  a  ]dace  quite  apart.  Ho 
respected  her,  and  in  that  lay  the  great  difference. 
The  unkempt  and  strangely-attired  damsels  who 
were  pleased  to  throw  themselves  mentally  at  his 
feet  were  not  such  ;is  command  respect.  In  liis 
heart  he  despised  them  a  little  ;  for  contempt  is 
invariably  incurred  by  affectation  of  any  descriji- 
tion. 

And  80  each  went  on  his  way — the  idle  soldier, 
the  vain  artist,  and  the  absorbed  journalist,  each 
framing   his   life   for  good  or  evil — pressing    up- 


CKOSS-PL^KFOSES.  281 

ward,  or  shuffling  down,  according  to  his  bent; 
eacli,  no  doubt,  peering  ahead,  as  sailors  peer 
through  rime  and  mist,  striving  to  penetrate  the 
blessed  veil  drawn  across  the  future.  Ah  I  Let 
us,  mv  brothers,  thank  God,  that,  despite  necro- 
mancer, astrologer,  thought-reader,  or  cliiroman- 
cer,  we  know  absolutely  nothing  of  what  is  wait- 
ing for  us  in  the  years  to  come.  Could  we  raise 
that  veil,  life  would  be  hell.  Could  we  see  the 
end  of  all  our  aims,  our  ambitions,  our  hopes,  and 
our  ••  long,  long  thoughts,"  there  would  be  few 
of  us  courageous  enough  to  go  on  with  this  strange 
experiment  called  human  existence.  Could  we 
see  the  end,  no  faith,  no  dogma,  no  fanaticism 
even,  would  have  power  to  prevent  us  questioning 
the  existence  of  the  Almighty,  because  we  could 
never  reconcile  the  beginning  to  that  end.  The 
question  would  rise  before  us  continuously  :  '•  If 
such  was  to  be  the  end.  why  was  the  beginning 
made  ?  '"  And  turn  this  question  as  you  will,  ex- 
plain it  as  you  may,  it  is  ever  a  question.  Tiie 
only  safeguard  is  suppression.  The  question  is 
not  asked  because  life  is  so  slow  that  the  begin- 
ning is  almost  forgotten  in  the  climax  ;  and  wliile 
we  live  through  the  earlier  chapters,  the  last  vol- 
ume is  inexorably  closed. 


382  SUSPEA'SE. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   SOCIAL  CONSPIRACY. 

About  ten  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  third 
day  after  the  meeting  with  Captain  Hnstoii,  Wil- 
liam llicks  entered  a  large  and  crowded  ballroom 
M'itli  Ins  usual  pleasant  condescension. 

The  dance  Avas  of  a  semi-parliamentary  charac- 
ter, and  although  the  society  papers  were  pleased 
to  announce  that  all  the  "  best  "  peo})le  were  out 
of  town,  there  was  a  crowd  of  well-dressed  men 
and  women  round  the  door  when  Ilicks  made  his 
appearance.  There  were  many  greetings  to  be 
exchanged,  a  few  diplomatic  donees  to  he  asked 
for,  and  then  the  artist  leisurely  stroked  his  golden 
mustache  as  he  looked  critically  round  the  room. 

His  smiling  face  contracted  into  gravity  for  a 
moment,  and  it  was  only  after  a  pause  that  he 
continued  his  investigations. 

^'Trist!"  he  murmured  to  himself.  **  Trist 
here  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  ?  Is  it  war, 
I  wonder  ?  Or  is  Brenda  coming  ?  I  will  find 
out." 

Presently  he  moved  away,  and  after  some  time 
joined  a  group  of  grave-faced  elderly  men,  among 
whom  TheoTrist  was  standing.  There  were  poli- 
ticians among  these  gentlemen,  and  several  faces 
were  of  a  distinctly  foreign  type,  while  more 
than  one  language  could  be  heard.  Hicks  looked  a 
trifle  out  of  his  element  amidst  such  surroundings, 


A  SOCIAL  CONSPIRACY.  2%^ 

and  the  foreign  languages  troubled  him.  No  one 
looked  toward  him  invitingly — not  even  Trist, 
who  was  talking  with  a  broad-shouldered  little 
man  with  a  large  head,  and  a  peculiar  listless  man- 
ner which  stamped  him  as  an  Oriental.  Hicks 
did  not  even  know  what  language  they  were  speak- 
ing. It  was  not  European  in  sound  or  intonation. 
Here  and  there  he  canglit  a  word  or  a  ]iame. 

Once  he  heard  Trist  mention  the  name  of  a 
Kussian  general  then  scarcely  known.  Though 
the  pronunciation  was  rath er'd iff erent  from  tliat 
of  most  Englishmen,  Hicks  recognized  the  word 
*'  Skobeleff,"  and,  glancing  toward  the  smaller 
man,  he  saw  upon  his  long,  mournful  features  a 
singular  look  of  uneasiness. 

There  was  something  fascinating  about  the 
man's  face  which  attracted  the  artist's  attention, 
and  he  stood  gazii!g  with  a  greater  fixity  than  is 
usually  considered  polite.  Without  looking  to- 
ward him,  the  Oriental  was  evidently  aware  of 
his  attention,  for  he  spoke  to  Trist,  who  turned 
with  deliberate  curiosity. 

''  Ah,  Hicks  !  '*  he  said,  "  how  do  you  do  ?" 

Then  he  turned  again  to  his  unemotional  com- 
panion and  made  a  remark,  which  was  received 
apathetically. 

Hicks  had  not  wished  to  make  his  advent  so 
prominent.  It  now  appeared  as  if  he  had  sought 
out  Trist  for  some  special  purpose,  to  make  some 
important  communication  which  could  not  brook 
delay. 

Trist  evidently  read  his  action  thus,  for  he  left 
the  group  of  statesmen  and  joined  him.  Hicks 
was  equal  to  the  occasion. 

"  You  remember,"  he  said  confidentially,  as  he 
touched  his  companion's  sleeve  an^  they  walked 


284,  SUSPEXSE. 

down  the  room  together — ''  you  remembor  what  I 
once  told  you  about  tho  Hustons  ?" 

Trist's  meek  eyes  rested  upon  the  spcakcM-'ri  face 
with  a  persistence  wliieli  was  not  encouraging  to 
idle  gossip. 

''  The  night  I  lel't  for  Servia  ?  "'  lie  inquired. 

Hicks  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes.     I  remember." 

The  artist  paused,  and  his  gloved  fingers  sought 
the  beauteous  mustache.  Trist's  calm  eyes  were 
not  easy  to  meet.  The\'  were  so  unconsciously 
scrutinizing. 

"  Well,  I  saw  Huston  tlic  other  day,"  lie  said 
at  length.  •'  He  has  not  improved  in  a))pearance. 
In  fact,  1  should  say  that  there  is  some  trutli  in 
the  story  I  repeated  to  you." 

There  was  no  encouragement  fortlicoming,  but 
Hicks  was  not  lacking  in  assurance.  He  was  a 
true  son  of  the  pavement — that  is  to  say,  an  in- 
dividual radical.  His  opinion  was,  in  his  own 
mind,  worth  that  of  Theodore  Trist. 

''There  are,"  he  continued,  " other  stories  go- 
ing about  at  present.  Do  you  not  think  .  .  . 
Trist  .  .  . — I  mean,  had  we  not  better,  for  Bren- 
da's  sake,  settle  u]ion  a  certain  version  of  the  mat- 
ter and  stick  to  it  ?  You  and  I,  old  follow,  are 
looked  upon  by  the  general  world  as  something- 
more  than  ordinary  friends  of  Alice  and  Brenda. 
Mrs.  Wylie  is  not  going  out  just  now.  They  have 
no  one  to  stick  up  for  them,  except  us.  jf  you 
know  more  than  you  care  to  confess,  I  am  sorry 
if  I  am  forcing  your  hand.   ..." 

He  paused  again,  and  again  his  companion  pre- 
served that  calm  non-committing  silence  which 
he  knew  so  well  how  to  assume.  He  held  a  hand 
whi(di    could  not  have  been  forced    by  a  player 


A  SOCIAL  COA'SPIHACV.  285 

possessing  ten  times  the  power  and  ten  times  tlie 
cunning  of  William  Hicks. 

"But,  Trist,  I  know  what  the  London  world 
is.     Something  must  be  done." 

Trist  shrugged  his  shoulders  imperceptibly. 

"Silence,"  continued  Hicks  significantly,  "in 
this  case  would  be  a  mistake.  I  don't  mind  .  .  . 
your  knowing  that  it  is  not  from  mere  curiosity 
that  I  am  doing  this.  Brenda  ...  I  want  to 
save  .  .  .  her  .  .  .  from  anything  unpleasant." 

At  this  point  Trist  appeared  to  relent.  It  was 
not  until  afterward  that  Hicks  realized  that  he 
had  learnt  absolutely  nothing  from  him. 

"What  do  you  think  ought  to  be  done  ?"  he 
asked  gently. 

_  The   question  remained  unanswered  for   some 
time,  and  then  it  was  only  met  by  another. 

"  Is  Brenda  coming  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  Alice  ?" 

"No." 

They  walked  through  the  brilliant  rooms  to- 
gether, each  wondering  what  lay  behind  the  eyes 
of  the  other,  each  striving  to  penetrate  the 
thoughts  of  the  other,  to  divine  his  motives,  to 
reach  his  heart. 

"  I  really  think,"  said  Hicks  at  length,  "  that 
it  rests  with  you.  You  must  say  what  is  to  bo 
done,  what  story  is  to  be  told,  what  farce  is  to  bo 
acted.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  know  more  about 
it  than  I  do.  Somehow  I  "have  lately  droppinl 
out  of  Mrs.  Wylie's  confidence,  and  .  ,  .  and 
Brenda  has  not  spoken  to  me  about  her  sister." 

"  But,"  said  Trist,  "  I  know  nothing  of  what 
you  refer  to  as  the  common  gossip  of  .  .  .  of  all 
these." 


286  St/SJ'ENSE. 

Ho  indicated  the  iissemhled  multitude  with  a 
gesture  which  was  sciircely  complimentary.  Hicks 
loolved  uncomfortable,  and  bit  hia  red  lip  nerv- 
ously. 

"  Don't  be  hard  on  us,"  he  pleaded  with  an  un- 
natural laugli.     "  I  am  one  of  them." 

"  Tell  mo,"  said  Trist  with  a  sudden  gravity  of 
manner,   ".  .    .    .  toll  me  what  they  are  saying." 

"  Well  ...  it  is  liardly  fair  to  ask  me." 

"  Why  ?  "  _ 

'*'  Because  you  will  not  thank  me  for  having 
told  you.  Wo  .  .  .  we  don't,  as  a  rule,  give  the 
bonoiit  of  the  doubt,  you  know." 

The  elder  man  turned  and  looked  at  his  com- 
panion with  a  slow  smile. 

"  My  dear  Hicks,"  he  said,  **  it  is  many  years 
since  I  gave  up  curing  what  the  world  might  say, 
or  expecting  the  benefit  of  the  doubt." 

"  For  yourself  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  for  myself.     What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  they  are  not  giving  Alice  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt  either." 

They  lia])pened  just  then  to  be  near  two  chairs 
placed  invitingly  within  an  alcove  by  a  soft-hearted 
liostess  who  had  not  yet  forgotten  her  flirting 
days. 

"  Lot  us   sit   down,"    said  Trist,   indicating 
these  chairs. 

'*  Now,"  he  continued  in  a  calm  voice  when 
they  were  seated,  '*  tell  me  what  the  world  is  say- 
ing a.bout  Alice." 

Hicks  was  not  devoid  of  a  certain  moral  courage, 
and  for  once  in  his  life  he  was  actuated  by  a  mo- 
tive which  was  not  entirely  selfish. 

"  They  say,"  he  answered  boldly,  **  that  she 
ran  away  from  her  husband  to  join  you." 


A  SOCIAL  COA'SPIRACY.  287 

To  some  natures  there  is  a  vague  enjoyment 
iu  imparting  bad  news,  and  the  dramatic  points 
in  this  conversation  were  by  no  means  lost  to 
William  Hicks,  who  was  a  born  actor.  His  listener, 
however,  received  the  news  without  tlie  slightest 
indication  of  surprise  or  annoyance.  He  merely 
nodded  his  head  and  murmured  : 

'^  Yes  ;  what  else  ?  " 

"  Oh  .  .  .  nothing  much — nothing,  at  least, 
that  I  have  heard,  except  that  Huston  was  supposed 
to  have  followed  her  home  and  caught  her  just 
in  time.  He  is  also  said  to  have  announced  his 
intention  of  shooting  you  at  the  first  convenient 
opportunity." 

Hicks  ceased  speaking,  and  waited  for  some 
exclamation  of  disgust,  some  heated  denial  or  in- 
dignant proof  of  the  utter  falseness  of  the  accusa- 
tion made  against  Alice  Huston.  None  of  these 
was  forthcoming.  Theo  Trist  merely  indicated 
his  comprehension  of  the  cruel  Avords,  and  sat 
thinking.  Beneath  that  calm  exterior  the  man's 
brain  was  very  busy,  and  as  he  raised  his  head 
with  a  slight  23ensive  frown  Hicks  recognized  for 
the  first  time  the  resemblance  to  the  great  Corsi- 
can  which  was  currently  attributed  to  the  war 
correspondent. 

"  Suppose,"'  said  Trist  at  length,  '*  suppose 
that  I  were  to  walk  arm-in-arm  into  this  room 
with  Huston.      V/ould  that  do  ?  " 

"  Can  you  manage  it  ?  "  inquired  the  artist 
incredulously. 

"  I  think  so  ;  if  I  can  only  find  him.  Suppose 
Huston  were  to  dance  with  Brenda,  and  we  were 
all  to  give  it  out  that  Alice  is  staying  with  her 
father  in  Cheltenham  or  somewhere." 

Hicks'   first   inclination  was  toward  laughter. 


288  SUSPEXSE. 

The  proposal  was  made  so  simply  and  so  readily 
that  the  whole  affair  appeared  for  a  moment 
merel}'  ludicrous. 

•'  Yes,"  ho  said  vaguely  ;  "  tluit  will  do  ;  tiiat 
will  do  verv  M'ell.  But  ...  is  Huston  in- 
vited ? "_ 

•'  I  will  manage  that." 

There  was  a  peaceful  sense  of  capability  al,»ont 
this  man  before  which  all  obstacles  seemed  to 
crumble  away.  Hicks  felt  slightly  ill s.satis lied. 
His  own  part  was  too  small  in  this  social  comedy. 
The  conduct  of  Brenda's  affairs  was  slipping  from 
his  grasp,  and  yet  ho  could  do  nothing  but  sub- 
jnit.  Trist  had  unconsciously  taken  command, 
and  when  command  is  unconscious  it  is  also 
jirbitrary. 

"  I  will  go  now  and  bring  Huston,"  he  added 
presently,  and  without  further  words  left  his  seat. 

Hicks  caressed  the  golden  mustache,  and  watched 
him  as  he  moved  easily  through  the  gay,  heed- 
less throng — a  sturdy,  strong  voung  figure,  full 
of  manhood,  full  of  purpose,  the  absurdly  meek 
eyes  shunning  rather  tlian  seeking  the  many 
glances  of  recognition  that  mot  \\h\\  on  his  way. 

Ho  went  up  to  his  hostess,  and  with  her  came 
apparently  straight  to  the  i)oint,  for  Hicks  saw 
the  lady  listen  attentively  and  then  acquiesce  with 
a  ready  smile. 

Nearly  half  an  hour  elapsed  before  Brenda  ar- 
rived. She  was  one  of  a  large  party,  and  her 
program  had  been  in  other  hands  before  Hicks 
became  possessed  of  it.  lie  glanced  keenly  down 
the  column  of  hieroglyphics.  The  initials  were 
all  genuine,  but  three  dances  had  been  kept  by  a 
little  cross  carefully  inserted.  Hicks  obtained 
two  waltzes,  and  returned  the  card  with  his  usual 


A  SOCIAL  CONSPIRACY,  2S9 

self-satisfied  smile.  He  knew  that  Breiida  ex- 
pected Trist,  although  she  was  not  looking  round 
as  if  in  search  of  an3'body.  But  he  was  fully  con- 
vinced that  there  was  some  mystery  on  foot.  One 
dance,  he  had  observed,  which  was  marked  with 
a  cross,  was  a  square.  Trist  and  Brenda  had 
met  by  appointment — not  as  young  men  meet 
maidens  every  niglit  in  tiie  year  at  dances  for 
purposes  of  flirtation,  or  the  more  serious  pastime 
of  love-making,  but  to  discuss  some  point  of 
mutual  interest. 

As  a  rival  Hicks  had  no  fear  of  Theodore 
Trist,  who,  he  argued,  was  a  very  fine  fellow  in 
his  way,  but  quite  without  social  accomplishments. 
He  was  a  good  dancer — that  point  he  generously 
admitted — but  beyond  that  he  had  nothing  to 
recommend  him  in  the  eyes  of  a  clever  and  ex- 
perienced girl  like  Brenda,  who  had  had  the  ad- 
vantages of  association  with  some  of  the  most 
talented  men  of  her  day,  and  intimacy  with  him- 
self, William  Hicks.  There  was  only  that  trivial 
matter  of  athletic  and  muscular  superiority,  which 
really  carried  no  great  weight  with  a  refined 
womanly  intellect.  In  a  ball-room  Theodore 
Trist,  with  his  brown,  grave  face,  his  absorbed 
eyes,  and  his  sturdy  form,  was  distinctly  out  of 
place.  He  had  not  eveii  a  white  waistcoat,  wore 
three  studs  in  the  front  of  his  shirt,  and  some- 
times even  forgot  to  sport  a  flower  in  his  coat. 
His  very  virtues  (of  an  old  fashion),  such  as 
steadfastness,  truth,  and  honesty,  prevented  him 
from  shining  in  society.  Fortunately,  however, 
for  his  own  happiness  he  was  without  vanity,  and 
therefore  unconscious  of  his  own  shortcomings. 
It  is  just  within  the  scope  of  possibility  that  he 
was  moved  by  no  ambitioQ  to  shine  jn  society. 

19 


390  suspex.se. 

"While  the  first  bai-s  of  the  waltz  were  in  pro- 
gress, Hicks  found  Brenda.  He  hud  little  diffi- 
culty in  doing  so,  because  he  had  been  watching 
her.  Moreover,  she  was  dressed  in  black,  which 
was  a  rare  attire  in  tiiat  room.  In  choosing  this 
somber  garb  she  had  made  no  mistake  ;  the  style 
suited  exactly  her  slim,  strong  young  form,  and 
in  contrast  her  neck  and  arms  were  dazzling  in 
their  whiteness. 

They  began  dancing  at  once,  and  Hicks  was 
conscious  that  there  was  no  couple  in  the  room  so 
perfectly  harmonious  in  movement,  so  skilled,  so 
intensely  refined. 

*'  Trist,"  he  said  presently  in  a  confidential 
way,  **  has  been  here." 

"Indeed  !"  was  the  guarded  reply,  made  with 
pleasant  indifference. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  Brenda,  he  and  I  had  a  little  talk, 
and,  in  consequence,  he  will  be  absent  for  some 
time,  but  he  is  coming  back." 

"  What,"  she  inquired  calmly,  "  did  you  talk 
abou  t  ? '' 

All  this  time  they  were  dancing,  smoothly  and 
with  the  indefatigable  rhythm  of  skilled  feet. 

''It  has  come  to  my  knowledge,"  he  replied, 
''that  gossip  has  connected  the  names  of  Alice 
and  Trist,  and  there  are  foolish  stories  going 
about  concerning  Huston,  who  is  said  to  be  search- 
ing for  Trist  with  the  intention  of  shooting  him. 
Trist  has  gone  to  bring  Huston  here  ;  they  will 
come  into  the  room  arm-in-arm.  We  arranged 
it,  and  I  think  no  further  contradiction  is  re- 
quired." 

Had  she  winced  he  would  have  been  aware  of 
it,  because  his  arm  was  round  her  yielding  waist, 
and  her  hand  was   within  his,     She   turned  her 


//  SOCIAL  CONSPIRACY.  t^x 

head  slightly  as  if  to  assist  him  in  steering  snccess- 
lully  through  a  narrow  place;  and  he,  glancing 
down,  saw  that  her  face  was  as  white  as  marble, 
but  her  step  never  faltered.  She  drew  a  deep  un- 
steady breath,  and  spoke  in  a  grateful  voice. 

'*It  is  very  good  of  you  .  .  .  both,"  she  said 
simply. 

They  continued  dancing  for  some  time  before 
the  silence  was  again  broken. 

''Someday,  Brenda,"  whispered  Hicks,  while 
preserving  with  immaculate  skill  an  indifferent 
face  before  the  world,  ''  I  will  tell  you  why  I  was 
forced  to  interfere  even  at  the  risk  of  displeasing 
you.     Some  other  time,  not  now." 

A  peculiar  contraction  seemed  to  pass  over 
her  face,  and  it  was  only  with  an  effort  that  she 
smiled  while  acknowledging  a  passing  bow  from  a 
girl-acquaintance. 

Soon  afterward  she  began  talking  cheerily  on  a 
safer  subject ;  and  despite  all  his  experience,  all 
his  cleverness,  "William  Hicks  could  not  bring  the 
conversation  round  again  to  the  topic  she  had 
shelved. 

Her  spirits  seemed  to  rise  as  the  evening  pro- 
gressed. There  was  a  task  before  her,  the  di- 
mensions of  which  were  soon  apparent.  Almost 
every  one  in  the  room  had  heard  something  of 
Alice,  and  the  only  contradiction  possible,  until 
Trist  and  Huston  arrived,  lay  in  the  brave  carriage 
of  a  cheerful  face  before  them  all. 

Tiiere  was  a  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece  of  a 
small  room  where  refreshments  were  set  forth, 
!ind  the  merits  of  this  secluded  retreat  were  re- 
tailed by  her  to  more  than  one  of  her  partners. 
The  pointers  of  the  daintv  timepiece  seemed  to 
crawl — once  or  twice  she  listened  for  the  beat  of 


292  SUSPENSE. 

the  pendnlum.  Midnight  came,  and  one  o'clock. 
Still  there  was  no  sign  of  Theodore  Trist.  At 
two  o'clock  her  chaperon  suggested  going  home, 
and  Brendu  was  compelled  to  apologize  langhingly 
to  several  grumbling  young  men,  who  attempted 
to  cut  off  her  retreat  at  the  door. 

The  spacious  hall  was  full  of  departing  guests  ; 
through  the  open  door  came  the  hoarse,  confus- 
ing shouts  of  policemen  and  footmen.  Brenda 
pressed  her  hands  together  beneath  her  opera-cloak 
and  shivered. 

Theodore  Trist  never  returned,  and  his  absence 
passed  unnoticed  by  all  except  William  Hicks,  who 
waited  till  the  end. 


BOOK  ni. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE   SPORT   OF   FATE. 

Theodore  Trist  did  not  attempt  to  blind  him- 
self as  to  the  difficulties  attending  his  strange 
undertaking,  but  he  was  prepared  to  face  them 
courageously. 

"■  If,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  can  only  find  him 
.  .  .  sober  ...  I  will  manage  the  rest." 

Without  doubt  this  silent  man  was  ready  to 
speak  at  last — to  tear  aside  the  veil  of  reserve,  be- 
liind  which  he  was  wont  to  take  refuge.  And 
this  to  the  eyes  of  Alice  Huston's  husband.  His 
was  a  nature  capable  of  immense  self-sacrifice,  and 
to  this  capability  had  been  added  an  almost  ex- 
aggerated sense  of  discipline.  That  which  he 
thought  right  he  would  probably  do — not  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment,  but  with  deliberate  purpose, 
and  without  fear  of  subsequent  regret. 

As  has  been  mentioned,  he  was  never  under  the 
influence  of  sudden  enthusiasm  ;  and,  as  a  rule, 
his  errors  arose  more  from  too  great  conscientious- 
ness in  setting  both  sides  of  a  question  equally 
before  his  own  judgment  than  from  rash  partisan- 
ship. 

Even  as  he  passed  down  the  broad  staircase, 
against  a  stream  of  gaily-dressed  guests,  he  was 

293 


294  Sl/SPEA/SE, 

montallj  apologizing  to  Hicka  for  having  liar- 
horcd  a  vague  feeling  of  dislike  against  him.  If 
tliere  had  been  any  distinct  motive  for  tiiig  di.s 
like,  he  would  never  have  withdrawn  it,  but  he 
recognized  that  it  was  without  ground.  Hicks 
was  not  a  man  after  his  own  heart ;  he  was  neither 
a  sportsman  nor  a  soldier— in  fact,  he  was  what  i.s 
euphoniously  called  a  •'  mutf  ;  *'  but  these  charges 
were  merely  negative  in  their  bearing.  Mrs. 
Wylie  might  havL'  told  him  that  ho  had  come  into 
closer  familiarity  with  Hicka  at  a  propitious  mo- 
ment, when  the  young  artist  was  finding  his  own 
level  and  laying  aside  unconsciously  his  small 
affectations  one  by  one,  but  of  this  Trist  had  no 
suspicion. 

He  called  a  hansom,  and  drove  to  the  club  of 
which  the  books  showed  a  subscription  as  duo  from 
Captain  Huston.  In  return  for  this  privilege  its 
doors  were  still  thrown  open  to  tlie  disgraced  sol- 
dier. Careful  inquiries  at  the  door  elicited  the 
information  that  Huston  had  been  there. 

''He  was  took  .  .  .  he  went  av/ay  with  a  friend 
a  good  half-hour  ago,  sir,''  the  porter  added,  with 
ft  curious  smile. 

The  smile  did  not  escape  the  questioner's  glance, 
and,  in  consequence  of  it,  Trist  went  up-stairs  to 
tiie  smoking-room.  He  was  not  a  member  of  the 
(dub,  but  his  name  Avasa  power  in  military  circles. 

The  information  he  gathered  from  friends  up- 
stairs was  not  of  an  encouraging  nature.  One 
young  blade,  with  downy  lip  and  weak,  dissipated 
eyes,  volunteered  the  statement  that  Huston  had 
gone  home  to  his  diggings  as  tight  as  a  drum. 
This  news  was  apparently  of  an  liihirious  drift, 
because  the  youthful  speaker  finished  with  a  roar 
of    throaty  laugliter.     An  older  ni;in    looked   up 


THE  SPORT  OF  FA  TE,  295 

over  his  evening  paper,  and  nodded  a  grave  ac- 
quiescence in  reply  to  Trist's  raised  eyebrows. 

"Does  anybody  know  his  address  ?"  inquired 
the  correspondent. 

iSI'obody  did. 

Upon  inquiry  at  the  door,  Trist  made  the  dis- 
covery that  the  porter  had  fortunately  been  asked 
to  give  the  direction  to  the  driver  of  the  cab  in 
which  Huston  had  been  taken  away.  The  address 
was  one  hardly  known  to  the  war-correspondent 
— a  small  street,  leading  out  of  another  small 
street,  near  the  Strand. 

In  his  calm  way  he  suddenly  determined  to  fol- 
low Huston.  He  lighted  a  cigar  at  the  spirit- 
lamp  afllxed  to  the  door-post,  and  then  called  a 
cab. 

**  I  am  not,"  he  reflected  with  some  truth  as  he 
descended  the  steps,  **'  I  am  not  an  imaginative 
person,  nor  very  highly  strung;  but  .  .  .  I  feel 
.  .  .  somehow  ...  as  if  something  were  going 
to  happen." 

There  was  a  considerable  delay  in  the  Strand, 
where  the  trafftc  \\'a3  much  congested  owing  to  the 
outpouring  theaters.  A  fog  was  hovering  round 
the  lamps  already.  -auCi,  -.vuuld  soon  envelop  every- 
thing. The  first  keen  frost  of  the  season  Avas  at 
hand,  with  its  usual  disastrous  effects  to  London 
lungs.  Amidst  the  confusion,  the  roar  of  traflSc, 
the  deafening  shouts  of  drivers,  policemen,  and 
runners  with  latest  editions  of  the  evening  papers, 
Trist  sat  forward,  with  his  arms  upon  the  closed 
door  of  the  hansom,  and  enjoyed  his  cigar.  All 
this  rush  of  life  and  confusion  of  humanity  thrilled 
liim.  He  almost  felt  as  if  he  were  at  work  again, 
making  his  way  to  the  front  through  the  wild 
nielee   of   u   disorganized   and   retreating  army  ; 


296  SUSPENSE. 

cavalry  and  infantry,  baggage  and  artillery,  all 
hopelessly  intermingled.  As  he  progressed  he 
noted  with  admiration  the  cool  skill  of  the  police- 
men, each  mail  alone  acting  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility, and  yet  connected  by  the  invisible  links  of 
discipline. 

At  length  the  driver  escaped  into  a  narrow 
street,  and,  turning  sharply  to  the  right,  drew  up 
before  a  tall  narrow  house,  bearing,  on  a  dingy 
lamp  above  the  door,  the  legend  "  No.  32,  Private 
Hotel."  A  hopeless  waiter,  with  shuffling  shoes 
and  a  shirt-front  of  uncertain  antecedents,  an- 
swered the  summons  of  a  melancholy  bell,  which 
seemed  to  tinkle  under  strong  protest,  and  as 
briefly  as  possible. 

"Captain  Huston  living  here?"  inquired 
Trist. 

"  Yess'r.     Er  you  the  doctor  ?  " 

The  war-correspondent  hesitated  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  stepped  into  the  narrow  hall. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"  '  E's  got  it  bad  this  time,  sir,"  volunteered  the 
waiter  with  melancholy  effusion. 

"What?" 

"D.  T.,  sir." 

Trist  nodded  his  head  shortly,  and  laid  aside  his 
hat. 

*'  Take  me  to  his  room,  please,"  he  said. 

The  waiter  shuffled  on  in  front,  and  the  yonng 
fellow  followed  him  up  the  dingy  stairs,  walking 
lightly  where  the  polished  knots  of  pinewooa 
peeped  through  the  clammy  oilcloth. 

And  now,  reader  mine,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
drunkard's  room  let  us  understand  each  other.  I 
am  not  going  to  take  you  across  the  boundary. 
The    door    will,   with   your   permission,    remain 


The  SPORT  OF  FATE.  297 

closed.  There  are  certain  things  in  life  which 
are  better  left  unstudied — certain  dirty  corners 
where  the  dust  lies  thickly.  It  is  better  to  let  it 
accumulate.  Some  of  us  have  seen  these  things  ; 
some  foot  has  been  across  the  tlireshold  ;  but  this 
is  no  realistic  novel ;  and  in  life,  as  in  a  story,  there 
are  details  which  (however  powerful  in  themselves) 
in  no  way  help  forward  the  narrative  or  beautify 
the  narration.  There  is  assuredly  notliing  to  be 
gained  by  dredging  human  nature.  As  a  man, 
the  present  writer  is  iniluenced  by  a  strong  esprit 
de  corps.  It  is  not  his  wish  to  trample  upon 
fallen  human  nature.  We  are  not  what  we  ought 
to  be,  but  there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  flaunt- 
ing the  seamy  side  before  the  world.  This  vol- 
ume may  fall  into  the  hands  of  some  young 
woman,  or  some  youth  to  whom  man  is  still  some- 
thing of  an  ideal.  God  forbid  that  any  word  of 
mine  should  dispel  illusions  which,  though  they 
be  but  hollow,  are  at  least  joyous. 

Therefore  we  will  let  Theodore  Trist  enter  that 
room  alone.  His  walk  in  life  had  not  been  in  the 
flowery  part  of  the  garden,  but  through  the 
rougher  growths,  where  good  is  sometimes  hidden 
beneath  a  hideous  exterior,  and  he  knew  already 
how  slight  a  division  there  is  between  man  and 
brute.  Any  battlefield  would  have  taught  him 
that. 

The  doctor  came,  and  stayed  longer  than  he 
could  conscientiously  spare  out  of  his  busy  life. 
It  was  half-past  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  before 
he  went  away,  leaving  Trist  alone  with  Huston, 
to  whom  sleep  had  come  at  last.  Before  leaving 
he  promised,  however,  to  send  an  experienced 
nurse. 

The  war-correspondent  sat  in  a  deep  leather- 


2g$  SVSPFXSIi. 

covered  arm-chair  before  the  sinol(l(Ting  firi'. 
ronteniplating  his  own  shoes,  A  man  of  nianv 
resources,  he  had  found  himself  in  many  strange 
situations  during  liis  short  thirty  years.  He  had 
made  the  best  of  more  than  onoaAvkward  dilemma 
by  going  straight  aliead  in  iii.s  patient,  steady  way. 
He  listened  to  tlio  stertorous  breathing  of  the  sick 
man,  and  never  thought  of  his  own  fatigue. 
There  was  no  suggesiion  of  complaint  iu  his  mind 
that  his  evening  of  pleasure  should  have  had  such 
an  unpleasant  linisli.  lie  did  not  even  look  at  his 
own  dress-clothes  cont.ra.-ting  Viith  the  dingy  sur- 
roundings, aiul  ajtpreciate  the  dramatic  force  of  it 
all  as  Hicks  might  have  done.  It  was  merely  an 
incident  in  his  life,  another  opportunity  to  exer- 
cise for  his  own  satisfaction  that  power  of  adapt- 
ability to  invironment  which  was  in  reality  his 
chief  aid  t  ~>  succe.-s  in  tlio  peculiar  surroundings 
of  his  varied  life. 

The  nurse  could  scarcely  be  expected  for  half 
an  hour  or  so,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  do 
hut  krnp  faithfully  tlie.  watcli  that  was  his  in  the 
meantime.  It  was  rather  strange  that  Trist 
should  have  saved  twice  within  a  month  the  worth- 
less life  of  this  man  who  liad  done  his  best  to 
throw  it  awav.  As  has  already  been  stated,  this 
student  of  I)eath  had  his  own  views  upon  the 
worth  of  hunuin  life — a  semi-Oriental  philosophy 
which  would  not  bear  setting  forth  here  in  black 
and  white  to  sensitive  AVesterTi  min<ls.  There  i.s 
no  doubt  that  familiarity  with  death  breeds  a  con- 
tempt for  life.  I  cannot  explain  this,  but  it  is  so. 
Doctors  and  soldiers  have  a  diifereut  view  of  human 
life  from  that  lield  by  the  rest  of  mankind  :  but 
there  is  something  in  us  which  is  stronger  than  tho 
strongest  views — namely,  the  instinct  of  preserving 


THE  3P0RT  OF  FA  TE.  299 

life.  Theodore  Trist  knew  that  the  miserable  ex- 
istence to  which  was  attached  the  name  Alfred 
Huston  was  in  every  way  yalueless.  To  its  pos- 
sessor ii  w;is  a  source  of  wretchedness,  a  constant 
struggle  against  the  overpowering  odds  of  evil. 
To  others  his  death  would  be  a  mercy.  He  knew 
this  ;  he  valued  his  life  lightly—aud  yet  he  staved 
off  this  death  twice. 

As  he  sat  and  thought  over  these  things,  the 
firelight  flickered  rosily  npon  his  face,  it  gleamed 
in  his  womanly  eyes,  glowed  npon  his  broad  liigh 
forehead.  He  was  quite  absorbed  in  his  reflections, 
and  never  glanced  toward  the  bed  which  was 
within  the  deep  crimson  shadov/.  He  judged 
from  the  heavy  respiration  that  Huston  was 
asleep;  in  this,' however,  he  was  mistaken.  The 
ex-soldier  lay  on  his  back,  but  his  face  was  turned 
toward  the  fire,  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  were  wide 
open.  His  lips  moved  restlessly,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them  beyond  the  strong  indrawing  of 
the  sodden  air.  His  wavering  glance  wandered 
from  Trist's  head  to  his  feet,  restless  and  full  of 
an  insatiable  hatred.  Upon  the  dirty  white  coyer- 
let  his  fingers  moved  convulsively,  as  if  clutching 
and  losing  hold  of  something  by  turns. 

It  was  a  terrible  picture,  and  one  that  could 
not  fail  to  arouse  in  thoughtful  minds  a  hopeless 
sense  of  despair.  No  one  could  look  on  it  and 
say  that  human  life  is  a  success.  We  may  paint 
the  good  points  as  brilliantly  as  we  like,  slur  over 
the  misery  as  quickly  as  we  can,  but,  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  the  fact  remains  that  we,  as  a  race, 
are  an  utter  failure. 

Presently  there  was  a  soft  knock  at  the  front- 
door, and  Trist  rose  from  liis  chair.  His  watch 
was  over  ;  the  hospital  nurse  had  arrived,  with  her 


300  SUSPENS£. 

soft  brave  eyes,  her  quick  fearless  fingers.  As  he 
ieft  tlie  room,  Trist  turned  and  glanced  toward 
the  bed.  Huston  lay  there  with  closed  eyes,  un- 
naturally still. 

Then  the  war-correspondent  left  the  room  on 
tiptoe.  No  sooner  had  the  door  closed  than  the 
sick  man's  eyes  opened.  There  was  a  peculiar 
shifty  light  in  the  expanded  pupils,  and  the  man's 
horrible  lips  moved  continuously.  He  sat  up  in 
bed. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  mumbled  thickly  ;  "  I  know  him. 
That's  the  man  .  .  .  that's  the  man  who's  in  love 
with  my  wife." 

The  lire  rose  and  fell  with  merry  crackle — for 
Trist  had  drawn  the  coals  together  noiselessly  be- 
fore leaving  the  room — and  in  the  semi-darkness  a 
strange  unsteady  form  moved  to  and  fro. 

♦'I  know  him,"  mumbled  the  horrible  voice, 
"and  .  .   .  I'm  going  to  shoot  him." 

There  was  a  slight  sound  as  if  a  drawer  were  being 
searched  in  a  table  or  piece  of  furniture  which 
was  not  quite  firm  upon  its  base,  and  a  moment 
later  the  door  was  opened  without  noise.  In  the 
passage  a  single  jet  of  gas  burnt  mournfully,  and 
threw  a  flood  of  light  through  the  open  doorway. 

Upon  the  threshold  stood  Huston,  quaking  and 
swaying  from  side  to  side.  In  his  trembling  fin- 
gers he  held  a  large  Colt's  revolver  of  the  cavalry 
pattern.  The  tips  of  the  conical  bullets  peeped 
from  the  chambers  threateningly.  His  clumsy 
hands  were  fumbling  with  the  hammer,  which 
was  stiff  and  deeply  sunk  within  the  lock  ;  the 
light  was  bad.  He  raised  the  pistol  closer  to  his 
swimming  eyes,  and  the  barrel,  gleaming  blue  and 
brown  alternately,  wavered  in  the  air. 

•'  P — n  the  thing  !  "  he  muttered  hoarsely. 


THE  SPORT  OF  FATE.  30 1 

The  next  instant  there  was  a  terrific  report 
through  the  silent  house, 

****** 

A  moment  later  Trist  and  the  nurse  were  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  ;  they  had  raced  up  side  by 
side.  The  woman  seized  a  worn  sheepskin  mat 
tliat  lay  at  the  door  of  an  empty  bedroom,  and. 
drawing  her  skirts  aside,  knelt  down  and  raised 
tiie  mutilated  face, 

"  Don't  let  it  run  on  the  floor/'  she  gasped, 
"it  is  so  horrible  !" 

They  were  both  old  hands  and  callous  enough 
to  be  very  quick.  By  the  time  that  the  startled 
household  was  aroused  the  dead  man  (for  the 
great  bullet  had  passed  right  through  his  brain) 
Avas  laid  upon  his  bed,  and  Trist  had  already  gone 
for  the  doctor. 

'•'K"o  one  must  go  in,"  said  the  nurse,  standing 
upon  the  threshold  and  barring  the  way .^  "He 
is  dead.  There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  AVait  un- 
til the  doctor  comes," 

Presently  Trist  returned,  bringing  with  him 
the  surgeon  and  a,  police-inspector.  They  all 
Avent  into  the  room  together  and  closed  the  door. 
Trist  turned  up  the  gas  and  watched  the  move- 
ments of  the  surgeon,  who  was  already  at  the  bed- 
side. 

"  Where  is  the  bullet  ?  "  asked  the  inspector. 

''In  the  woodwork  of  the  door,"  answered 
Trist. 

The  doctor  left  the  bedside  and  came  into  the 
middle  of  the  room,  standing  upon  the  hearthrug 
with  his  back  toward  the  fire. 

"I  should  be  of  opinion,"  he  said,  "that  it 
was  an  accident," 


302  SUSPENSE. 

The  inspector  nodded  his  head,  and  looked 
from  the  nurse  to  Trist. 

"  Does  anybody,"  he  asked,  "  know  who  he  is, 
or  anything  about  him  ?" 

*'  I  know  who  lie  is  and  all  about  him,"  an- 
swered tlie  war-correspondent. 

Note-book  in  hand,  the  inspector  glanced 
keenly  at  the  speaker. 

*' And  .  .  .  who  are  .  .  .  you  ?"  ho  asked, 
•writing. 

'^  Theodore  Trist." 

**  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  doctor. 

The  inspector  drew  himself  up  and  continued 
writing. 

"Do  you  know,  sir,  what  he  was  doing  with  the 
pistol?  Had  he  any  intention  of  using  it  upon 
himself  or  upon  any  other  ?" 

Trist  looked  at  his  questioner  calmly. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BREAKING      IT. 

Like  one  in  a  dream  Theodore  Trist  passed  out 
into  the  narrow  street  somewhat  later.  It  was  nearly 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning  ;  the  ball  was  scarcely 
over,  and  yet  to  this  unimaginative  man  it  seemed 
ages  since  he  had  spoken  with  "William  Hicks, 
listening  in  a  vague  way  to  the  swinjcing  waltz 
music  all  the  while.  When  he  reached  his  quiet 
rooms,  he  was  almost  startled  at  the  sight  of  hia 


BREAKING  IT.  503 

<-\x\\  dress-clothes,  spotless  shirt-front,  and  un- 
obtrusive flower.  He  had  quite  forgotten  that 
these  garments  of  pleasure  were  beneath  his  over- 
coat. His  night's  work  liad  not  been  in  keeping 
with  dress-clothes. 

'*■  I  will  think,"  lie  said  to  himself,  ''  how  it  is 
to  be  broken  to  everybody  to-morrow."  And  with 
great  screnitj''  he  went  to  bed. 

Sleep  soon  camo  to  him  despite  the  incidents 
crowded  into  the  last  few  hours.  It  is  a  habit 
wiih  some  people  to  lie  awake  at  night  and  ponder 
over  their  woes.  They  regard  this  as  a  solemn 
duty,  a  homage  to  be  paid  to  the  Goddess  of 
Tears  ;  and  they  never  fail  to  mention  their  melan- 
choly vigil  to  some  one  or  other  more  or  less  con- 
nected with  the  trouble  next  morning.  It  is  merely 
habit,  and  of  no  more  value  than  the  custom  of 
mentioning  witli  lowered  voice  the  name  of  one 
who  had  been  dead  twenty  years,  and  whose 
memory  can  after  that  space  of  time  assuredly  be 
awakened  without  such  poignant  grief  as  is  con- 
sidered its  due. 

Trist  was  not  one  of  these.  He  valued  human 
life  at  no  very  great  price,  and  as  (after  all  has 
been  said  and  done,  believed  and  repudiated) 
Death  is  the  greatest  sorrow  we  have  to  face,  ho 
was  perhaps  a  little  callous.  He  made  no  pretense 
of  disguising  the  fact  that  Captain  Huston's  sud- 
den, and  what  is  usually  denominated  "shock- 
ing" demise  was  little  short  of  a  release  for  all 
concerned  with  his  existence  ;  and  he  did  not 
even  fall  into  the  common  error  of  looking  upon 
all  past  sins  as  cleansed  away  by  the  very  ordinary 
ana  easy  method  of  terminating  their  career.  It 
is  just  as  well  for  some  of  us,  methinks,  that  the 
good  old  Egyptian  custom,  of   inscribing   upon 


Jo4  Strs/'EXSA. 

the  lid  or  side  of  our  sarcophagus  a  full  aud  au- 
thentic history  of  tho  life  terrainating  therein, 
has  died  out.  They  had  a  nasty  habit,  too,  those 
tactless  ancients,  of  sculpturing  a  speaking  like- 
ness upon  the  lid,  or  erecting  a  statue  near  at 
hand,  so  that  at  the  Great  Judgment  the  wander- 
ing soul  could  single  out  without  trouble  its  right- 
ful body. 

Death,  however  sudtlen,  could  not  in  those  days 
endow  with  many  virtues,  many  charms,  and  great 
personal  comeliness,  as  it  endows  us  now.  I  some- 
times think  of  those  old  Egyptian  spirits  with  a 
gentle  sympathy.  How  disappointed  some  of 
them  will  be  when  they  stand  face  to  face  with 
the  true  likeness  of  the  body  in  which  they  played 
out  their  brief  innings  three  thousand  years  ago  ! 
When,  too,  they  read  the  uncompromising  hiero- 
glyphs, there  will  be  unpleasant  awakenings  and 
perhaps  a  little  scoffing  from  those  who  have  drawn 
cleaner  sarcophagi. 

So  Trist  slept  peacefully,  with  a  philosophic  re- 
flection that  Huston  would  never  have  done  much 
good  in  the  world.  The  present  writer  once  heard 
a  man,  in  all  sincerity  and  all  faith,  console  him- 
self with  the  thought  that  if  he  was  not  tit  to  die, 
the  probabilities  were  that  he  never  would  be  fit- 
ter. This  j)hilosopher  Avas  a  godless  sailor,  and 
he  made  the  remark  in  answer  to  a  chatting  observa- 
tion advanced  by  a  more  fortunate  mate  that  he 
would  certainly  be  drowned  because  he  possessed 
no  life-belt.  The  ship  was  sinking,  the  boats  wore 
smashed,  and  there  were  other  things  to  do  just 
then  than  weigh  this  philosopliy  in  the  scales  of 
reason  ;  but  having  more  leisure  at  a  later  period, 
1  came  to  think  over  it,  and  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  there  Mas  much   within    tliat  re- 


BREAKING  IT.  365 

flection  that  is  worth  consideration.  Let  ns.  how- 
ever, avoid  the  quicksands  of  a  theological  contro- 
versy. 


It  has  not  hitherto  been  mentioned  that  Mrs. 
Wylie  possessed  one  or  two  vices  of  a  compara- 
tively harmless  description.  The  most  prominent 
of  these  was  unpnnctuality  at  the  breakfast-table. 
This  is  a  most  comfortable  vice,  and  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  the  placid  and  easy-going  nature  of  tlio 
lady.  The  best  woman  I  have  ever  known  is  in- 
variably late  for  breakfast  ;  her  hair  is  white  iiow, 
but  long  may  she  continue  arriving  after  time  I 
There  is  someone  else  who  is  most  lamentably 
unpunctual  any  time  before  ten  o'clock  anteme- 
ridian. She  is  not  a  woman  yet,  but  she  has  begun 
well.  I  may  mention  that  I  do  not  at  all  object 
to  pouring  out  my  own  coffee. 

Brenda,  being  of  a  more  active  nature,  was 
usually  down  first,  and  the  fact  of  having  been 
out  to  a  ball  the  night  before  rarely  acted  as  a 
deterrent.  It  thus  came  about  that  she  was  alone 
at  the  breakfast-table  when  Trist  was  announced. 
It  was  a  dainty,  womanly  little  meal  set  out  on 
the  snowy  cloth,  and  as  yet  untouched.  Brenda 
was  in  the  act  of  opening  the  newspaper  when 
Trist  entered  the  room.  She  did  not  remember 
until  afterward  that,  as  he  shook  hands,  he  took 
the  journal  from  her  and  laid  it  aside.  Perhaps 
she  noted  the  action  at  the  time,  but  he  was  never 
in  the  habit  of  acting  just  like  other  men,  and  the 
peculiarity  of  this  little  movement  did  not  strike 
her  sufficiently  to  remain  upon  her  memory  as  a 
distinct  incident. 

••  Ah  ! "  she  said  gaily  ;  ^'you  think  it  prudent 
ao 


3o^  SUSPKA'Sf':. 

to  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot — I  being  the  iron. 
I  am  nob  red-hot,  but  quite  wiirni  enough  to  be 
unpleusant,  and  just  too  hai'd  to  be  struck. 
Please  explain  wliy  you  never  claimed  the  three 
dances  you  asked  me  to  keej)  ?  " 

Trist  smiled  in  iiis  gravest  way — n  mere  reflec- 
tion of  her  bright  gaiety. 

"  That  is  what  I  came  to  explain,"  he  said. 

He  passed  lier  standing  at  the  table,  and  went 
toward  the  fire.  There  he  drew  ofT  his  gloves  in 
a  peculiarly  thoughtful  manner. 

'' Theo/' said  Brenda,  "have  vou  liad  break- 
fast ?  " 

''Yes,  thanks  ! '' 

His  manner  was  habitually  misleading,  and  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  her  to  see  that  he  had 
bad  news  to  impart.  His  strong,  purposeful 
liands  Avere  always  steady,  which  is  somewhat  ex- 
ceptional ;  for  the  fingers  betray  emotion  when 
the  eyes  are  dumb. 

"Rather,"  she  continued  lightly,  "  than  break 
my  faith  to  you,  I  planted  myself,  so  to  speak, 
among  the  wall-flowers,  where  1  was  content  to 
bloom  in  solitude." 

"  Through  the  whole  dance  ?"  he  asked  mean- 
ingly. 

*•  Well  .   .  .  not  quite.     When  I  was  satisfied 
lat  you  were  not  there,  I  danced   with  someone 
else.'' 

Ha  smiled,  and  said  nothing. 

Brenda  moved  one  or  two  things  upon  the 
breakfast-table — things  which  in  no  way  required 
moving.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  ill  at  case  with  this  man.  For  the 
first  time  she  dreiided  vaguely  to  hear  him  sneak  be- 
cause she  was  not  sure  that  he  was  at  ense  liimself. 


BREAKING  IT.  ^oj 

At  last  he  began,  and  there  was  a  strained 
thrill  in  his  voice  as  if  it  were  an  effort  to  open 
his  lips. 

"It  has  been  my  .  .  .  fate  .  .  .  Brenda,  to  be 
with  you  or  near  you  during  most  of  the  incidents 
in  your  life  ..."  here  he  paused. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured  unsteadily. 

"I  have,"  he  continued,  "perhaps,  been  of 
some  small  use  to  you.  I  have  been  happy 
enough  at  times  to  tell  you  good  news,  and  .  .  . 
once  or  twice  I  have  been  the  messenger  of  evil. 
.  .  .     Now  ..." 

"Now,"  interrupted  Brenda  suddenly,  as  she 
came  toward  him,  for  a  light  had  broken'upon  her 
— "  now  you  have  bad  news,  Theo  ?  Surely  you 
are  not  afraid  of  telling  it  to  me  !  " 

"  I  don't  exactly  know,"  he  answered  slowly, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  white  fingers  resting  on 
his  sleeve,  "whether  it  is  good  news  or  bad. 
Huston  is  dead  ! " 

She  had  continued  smiling  bravely  into  his 
eyes  until  the  last  words  were  spoken,  then  sud- 
denly she  turned  her  face  away.  He  watched 
the  color  fade  from  her  cheek,  slowly  sinking 
downward  until  her  throat  was  like  marble. 
Then  she  withdrew  her  hand  deliberately  from 
his  touch,  as  if  there  had  been  evil  in  it.  After  a 
moment  she  turned  again  and  looked  keenly  at 
him  with  wondering  horror-struck  eyes. 

"  Then,"  she  murmured  monotonously,  "Alice 
is  ...  a  widow." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  say,  and  she  had  no 
definite  conception  of  the  train  of  thought 
prompting  the  remark.  He  looked  at  her  in  a 
curious,  puzzled  way,  like  a  man  who  is  near  a 
truth,  but  fears  to  prove  his  proximity. 


3o8  SUSPENSE. 

"  Does  she  know  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly,  rous- 
ing herself  to  the  necessity  of  prompt  action. 

**  No.  I  have  not  your  aunt's  address  in  Chel- 
tenham.'' 

Brenda  looked  at  the  clock  upon  a  mantelpiece, 
a  reliable  mechanism,  wliich  kept  remarkable 
time  considering  its  feminine  environments. 

*'  Mrs.  Wylie  will  be  here  in  a  moment  ;  we  will 
then  consider  about  the  telegram.  In  the  mean- 
time .  .  .  tell  me  when  it  happened,  and  how  ?'* 

"  It  happened  at  two  o'clock  this  morning  .  .  . 
suddenly." 

Brenda  looked  up  at  the  last  word,  although  it 
was  spoken  quite  gently. 

"Suddenly  .  .  >" 

*'Yes.  It  .  .  .  he  shot  himself  with  a  revolver 
...  by  accident !  " 

The  man's  gentle,  inscrutable  eyes  fell  before 
Brenda's  gaze.  He  moved  uneasily,  and  turned 
away,  apparently  much  interested  in  the  orna- 
ments upon  the  mantelpiece. 

"  Were  you  present  at  the  time  ?  " 

''No.  I  was  down-stairs.  He  was  in  his  bed- 
room." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  girl  mechanically,  ''what 
was  he  doing  with  the  revolver  ?  " 

Trist  turned  slowly  and  faced  her.  There  was 
no  hesitation  in  his  glance  now ;  his  eyes  looked 
straight  into  hers  with  a  deliberate,  calm  meaning. 
Then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*' Who  knows?"  he  murmured,  still  watching 
her  face. 

There  flitted  across  his  features  the  mere  ghost 
of  a  deprecating  smile,  which  was  answered  some- 
what wanly  by  her.  Women,  I  have  observed, 
never  laugh  at  danger  as  men  do,     They  are  in^ 


BREAKING  IT,  309 

different  to  it,  or  they  dread  it  undisguisedly,  bnt 
they  do  not  at  any  time  despise  it. 

When  at  length  Brenda  turned  away  she  pressed 
her  lips  together  as  if  to  moisten  them,  and  there 
was  a  convulsive  movement  m  her  throat.  They 
nnderstood  each  other  thoroughly. 

"  There  will,  of  course,"  said  Trist  presently, 
"  be  an  inquest.  It  is,  however,  quite  clear  that, 
being  left  for  a  moment  alone,  he  rose  from  his 
bed  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity,  and  having 
jjossessed  himself  of  a  revolver  (possibly  for  suicidal 
purposes),  he  shot  himself  by  accident.'' 

Brenda  had  crossed  the  room  to  the  window, 
where  she  stood  with  her  back  toward  her  com- 
panion. 

**  Yes  !  "  she  murmured  absently. 

She  was  swaying  a  little  from  side  to  side,  and 
her  face  was  raised  in  an  unnatural  way.  Trist 
stood  upon  the  hearthrug,  with  his  elbow  resting 
on  the  mantelpiece.  He  was  watching  her  at- 
tentively. 

*''I  have,"  he  said  somewhat  hastily,  as  if  it 
were  an  afterthought,  ''  some  influence  with  the 
newspapers." 

Of  this  she  took  absolutely  no  notice.  It  would 
appear  that  she  had  not  heard  his  voice.  Then 
Trist  moved  restlessly.  After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion he  lifted  his  arm  from  the  mantelpiece  with 
the  apparent  intention  of  going  toward  her.  lie 
even  made  two  or  three  steps  in  that  direction — 
steps  that  were  inaudible,  for  his  tread  was  singu- 
larly light.  Then  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Wylie  came  into  the  room. 

"Theol"  said  the  lady,  with  rather  less  sur- 
prise than  might  have  been  expected. 

In  a  moment  she  had  perceiyed  that  there  ^Yas 


^lO  SUSPENSE. 

something  wrong.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the 
room  was  tense.  These  two  strong  young  people 
had  either  been  quarreling  or  making  love.  Of 
that  Mrs.  Wylie  was  certain.  Her  entrance  had 
perhaps  been  malapropos  ;  but  she  could  not  go 
back  now.  Moreover,  she  was  the  sort  of  a  wo- 
man who  never  errs  in  retreating.  Her  method 
of  fighting  the  world  was  from  a  strong  position 
calmly  held,  or  by  a  steady,  sure  advance. 

"  Good  morning,  Theo!"  she  said,  with  that 
deliberate  cheeriness  which  is  the  deepest  diplo- 
macy. ''This  is  an  early  visit.  Have  you  come 
to  discover  the  laziness  of  the  land  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Theo  simply. 

Then  he  turned  and  looked  toward  Brenda  in  a 
way  which  plainly  said  that  she  was  expected  to 
come  forward  into  the  breach  he  had  effected. 

Brenda  came.  Her  face  was  not  so  grave  as 
Trist's,  but  her  lips  were  colorless. 

"Theo  has  come,"  she  said,  "with  bad  news. 
We  must  telegraph  to  Alice  at  once.  Alfred 
Huston  had  .    .  .  an  accident  last  night." 

"What?"  inquired  Mrs.  Wylie,  turning  to 
Trist. 

**  He  is  dead — he  shot  himself  by  accident,"  re- 
plied the  war-correspondent. 

Mrs.  Wylie  stood  for  some  moments  in  her  com- 
fortable, placid  way,  rubbing  one  smooth  hand  over 
the  other.  She  did  not  appear  to  be  looking 
anywhere  in  particular,  but  in  reality  no  move- 
ment of  Brenda's,  however  slight,  escaped  her 
notice. 

"  And  now,"  she  said,  after  a  weary  little  sigh, 
"  I  suppose  she  will  discover  how  much  she  loved 
him  all  along.  .  .  ." 

Trist  made  a  little  movement,  but  the  widow 


BKtAKlNd  JT.  311 

turned  her  calm  gaze  toward  him,  and  spoke  on, 
with  a  certain  emphasis  : 

*'  Alice  has  in  reality  alwa3^8  loved  Alfred  Hus- 
ton. This  little  misunderstanding  would  nevor 
have  arisen  had  there  not  been  love  on  both  sides. 
r  have  known  it  all  along.  Yon  can  trust  an  old 
woman  on  such  matters.  This  is  a  very,  very  sad 
tMidin;!;  to  it  all.'' 

'•Yes,"  assented  Tlieo  meeklv ;  *' it  is  very 
sad." 

Hrenda  had  turned  away.  She  was  standing  at 
the  window  in  her  favorite  attitude  there — with 
her  arms  outstretched,  her  fingers  resting  on  the 
broad  window-sill  among  the  ornamental  fern- 
baskets  and  flower-pots. 

Mrs.  Wylie  walked  to  the  fireplace. 

"'Let  me  think,"  she  said,  half  to  herself, 
"what  must  be  done." 

She  knew  that  Trist  was  watching  her,  waiting 
for  his  instructions  in  his  emotionless,  almost  in- 
different, way.  (If  it  were  not  for  a  certain  moral 
laziness  in  the  male  temperament,  women  would 
be  able  to  do  very  little  with  men.)  Then  the 
widow  met  his  gaze.  She  made  a  scarcely-per- 
ceptible movement  toward  the  door  with  her  eye- 
lids. With  a  slight  nod  he  signified  his  compre- 
hension of  the  signal. 

•*I  must,"  he  said.  *' go  back  now  to  ...  to 
Huston's  rooms.  Will  von  communicate  with 
Aiice?" 

**  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  simply. 

Without  further  ex]danation  he  went  toward 
the  door,  glancing  at  Brenda  as  ho  passed,  Mrs. 
Wylie  followed  him. 

"We  are  better  without  yon  just  now,"  she 
whispered  in  the  passage.     "Write  me  full  par- 


3 1  ■}  sasj'/-:A's£. 

ticulars,  aud   wait  to  hear  from  me  before  you 
come  back/' 


CHAPTER  III. 

MRS.  WYLIE   TAKES  THE   OFFENSIVE. 

When  Mrs.  Wylie  returned  to  the  breakfast- 
room,  she  found  that  Brenda  was  preparing  to 
w^'ite.  A  blank  telegram-form  lay  on  the  blot- 
ting-pad in  readiness. 

*•  We  must  telegraph  to  Alice,"  she  said  briskly, 
as  she  dipped  a  quill  pen  into  the  ink.  '•'  What 
shall  I  say  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wylie  noticed  the  quill  pen,  and  remem- 
bered that  the  girl  never  used  anything  but  steel. 

"  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry,"  she  urged  rather 
coolly.  ''  Let  us  think  what  is  best  to  be  done. 
Let  us  have  some  breakfast." 

''I  don't  think  I  want  any  breakfast." 

''  I  am  sure  I  do  not,  but  I  am  going  to  eat 
some.  Breakfast  means  nerve,  Brenda,  and  we 
shall  want  all  our  nerve  for  the  next  few  days." 

Reluctantly  the  girl  took  her  place  at  the  table. 
Iler  companion  was  relentless  ;  moreover,  she  was 
aggravatingly  placid,  even  to  speculation, 

''There  are  some  lives,"  she  said,  "  which  seem 
to  be  allowed  as  a  warning  aud  lesson  to  the  rest 
of  us.  Xo  doubt  it  is  very  instructive  to  the  on- 
lookers ;  but  I  am  sometimes  a  little  sorry  for  the 
examples  themselves." 

Brenda  looked  up,  and  presently  resumed  her 
pretense  of  eating. 

*•■  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,   "  that  his  was   not  a 


MJiS.   ivy  LIE   TAKES  THE  OFFENSIVE.    313 

very  happy  life.  If  he  had  the  opportunity  of 
living  it  over  again  ...  I  doubt  .  .  .  whether 
he  would  accept  it,  I  mean." 

"  Oh,"  returned  the  elder  lady  with  remarkable 
conviction,   "  none  of  us  would  do  that  \" 

Brenda  showed  no  disposition  to  stray  off  into 
generalities. 

''Did  you,"  she  asked  quietly,  ''really  mean 
what  you  said  just  now  about  Alice  ?  Is  it  your 
honest  opinion  that  she  loved  Alfred  Huston 
through  it  all  ?" 

Mrs.  AVylie  sipped  her  tea  meditatively. 

"There  are,"  she  answered  after  a  pause, 
".  .  .  .  there  aro,  t  am  afraid,  some  women  who 
go  through  their  liver  without  ever  achieving  the 
power  of  loving  truly  and  wholly.  It  sometimes 
seems  to  me  that  Alice  is  one  of  them.  They  en- 
joy as  others  do,  and  they  endure  ;  but  love  is 
neither  enjoyment  nor  endurance.  It  is  a  specialty, 
and  the  women  who  possess  it  (though  they  be 
called  coquettes,  flirts,  wantons)  are  the  salt  of 
the  earth.  Alice  came  as  near  loving  Alfred 
Huston  as  she  will  ever  be  to  loving  any  one  be- 
yond herself." 

"  You  think  so  ?  "  in  a  curious  monotone. 

*'Yes;  I  do." 

''  I  .  .  .  don't,"  said  Brenda. 

*' Ah  !  then  you  follow  the  majority,  which,  by 
the  way,  is  composed  of  mere  casual  observers." 

**  I  do  not  know  that  I  follow  the  majority  ; 
but  I  am  of  opinion  that  Alice  has  never  loved 
Alfred  Huston,  because  there  was'some  one  else." 

"That  /'.<  following  the  majority,"  observed 
Mrs.  "Wylie  complacently. 

"  And,"  continued  the  girl  in  a  hard  voice, 
"  that  other  person  is  Theo  Trist," 


3»4 


SUSPEXSE. 


"  Majority,''  murniurud  tlie  widow  sweetly. 

"Even,"  continued  Brendu  after  a  little  pause, 
**if  thins^s  are  as  you  sav,  it  is  horriblv  sad,  and 
there  is  no  alleviation.  It  is  very  hard  that 
Alice  shonUl  only  realize  noM*  that  sl>e  loved 
jiini.  The  rest  of  her  life  will  be  .  .  .  wiiat 
will  \i  he?'* 

"I  believe,"  answered  the  older  woman,  with 
that  practical  philosophy  which  seems  to  l)e  a 
growtii  of  years  only,  "that  Alice  loved  him  as 
much  as  lay  in  her  nature.  1  am  afraid,  my  dear, 
that  your  sister  is  incapable  of  a  great  and  last- 
ing passion,  such  as  is  usually  considered  de- 
sirable, although  it  invariably  wrecks  a  life  or 
two." 

"Very  few  people  understand  Alice." 

"'  And  fewer  still  are  ready  to  make  lier  the 
slightest  allowance.  She  began  life  with  an 
initial  mistake — namely,  that  a  beautiful  girl  cati 
marry  any  man  she  may  choose.  This  error  is 
very  widespread  ;  but,  my  dear,  I  have  never 
watched  the  career  of  a  beautiful  girl  without 
discovering,  sooner  or  later,  that  in  reality  her 
choice  is  remarkably  small,  .\fter  weeding  out, 
impossibilities,  setting  aside  improbabilities,  and 
getting  rid  of  ball-room  hacks,  there  are  seldom 
more  than  two  men  left.  If  a  girl,  in  the  conli- 
dence  of  her  own  loveliness  as  vouched  for  by 
elderly  bachelors  and  doting  relatives,  is  ])leased 
to  consider  that  she  can  have  any  m:in  she  likes, 
let  her  try.  The  best  men,  the  ideal  husbands, 
ai*e  not  to  be  fished  for.  They  come  of  tlieir  own 
accord,  or  they  stay  away  altogether." 

'*  I  suppose,"  said  Brenda  refiectively,  "  that 
she  was  spoilt  by  the  circumstances  attending  her 
earlv  life  ?     Her  popularity,  I   nu-nn,     But  then 


MRS.   IVYLIE   TAA'ES  THE  OFFENSIVE,    ji^ 


people  will  say  that  a   good  nature  ia,  or  should 
he,  beyond  the  reach  of  circumstances." 

''  We  cannot  help,"  replied  the  woman  of  the 
world,  "•  what  people  say.  In  the  meantime 
we  must  just  make  the  best  of  things  as  they 
stand.  Alice  is  in  an  awkwurd  position,  and  it  is 
clearly  our  duty  to  get  her  out  of  it  as   creditably 


as  we  can." 


"  Of  course.     I  am  ready  to  do  all  I  can." 

Mrs.  Wylie  rose  from  the  table  with  her  char- 
acteristic cheeriness.  For  some  moments  she  ap- 
peared to  be  thinking,  then  she  spoke  : 

"  The  best  way  out  of  it  is  for  me  to  go  down 
to  Cheltenham  and  bring  her  back.  There  is  a 
train  about  eleven  o'clock  :  Alice  herself  went  by 
it.  We  can  be  back  by  to-night — about  dinner- 
time, I  should  think,  or  a  little  later." 

To  this  suggestion  Brenda  acceded  willingly 
enough.  She  was  rather  dazed  by  this  sudden 
change  in  her  sister's  affairs,  and  her  usually  clear 
intellect  seemed  almost  benumbed.  Her  manner 
was  similar  to  that  of  a  woman  laboring  under  in- 
tense anxiety,  or  a  suspense  more  terrible  than  the 
most  abject  fear. 

Before  leaving  Mrs.  Wylie  telegraphed  to  Trist, 
tiie  message  being  kept  from  Brenda's  knowledge. 
She  addressed  it  to  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street, 
:uid  Avithout  hesitation  wrote  the  following  words: 

"  I  am  going  to  Cheltenham.  Keep  avmy  fi'om 
Jlrcnda.  Eo:ped  me  in  Jermyyi  Street  eight  o'clock 
to-night." 

"  I  think,"  she  reflected,  as  her  plump  white 
hand  pressed  the  blotting-paper,  "  that  the  time 
has  really  come  when  I  must  do  something.     These 


^i6  saspEArs£. 

young  people  are  verging  on  a  terrible  muddle 
.  .  .  unless  .  .  .  unless  Theo  has  some  set  plan 
of  his  own  all  along.  I  sometimes  think  he  lias. 
There  must  be  a  motive  somewhere." 

As  the  good  lady  was  descending  the  stairs  at 
half-past  ten  on  her  way  to  Paddington  Station, 
a  commissionaire  came  toiling  up.  He  carried  a 
letter  in  his  hand,  and  Mrs.  Wylie,  perceiving  it, 
stopped  him.  It  was  a  full  account  of  the  accident 
written  at  a  club  near  at  hand  by  Theodore  Trist. 
By  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  Alice  Huston 
learnt  her  husband's  end.  She  received  the  news 
with  a  strange  ai)athy.  There  were  times  in  tkis 
woman's  life  when  the  permanence  of  sorrow  was 
shut  out  from  her  mind.  She  was  like  a  child  in 
the  way  in  which  she  took  the  punishment  God 
thought  fit  to  administer.  It  seemed  part  of  her 
mental  laziness.  She  had  not  even  the  energy  to 
resist,  however  useless  such  a  course  may  be. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost,,  and  Mrs.  Wylie 
insisted  upon  an  immediate  departure  for  town. 
The  excuses  put  forward  by  Alice  were  trivial,  or 
would  have  been  considered  trivial  in  another 
woman.  They  caught  the  train,  however,  and 
reached  London  at  half-jiast  seven.  A  long  weary 
drive  in  a  rattling  cab  (such  a  vehicle  as  could 
not  be  found  in  any  other  city)  brought  them  to 
Suffolk  Mansions. 

Brenda  was  at  the  door  to  meet  them.  She 
kissed  her  sister  silently,  and  then  followed  the 
two  ladies  into  the  drawing-room.  There  was  a 
cheery  fire  burning  briskly  in  the  grate  ;  a  single 
lamp  with  a  pink  shade  had  a  wonderful  effect  in 
adding  comfort  to  the  appearance  of  the  room. 

Alice  lifted  her  veil  and  looked  round  as  if  ex- 
pecting to  find  some  one  there.     Mrs.  Wylie,  near 


MkS.   WYLIE   TAKES  THE  OFFENSIVE.    317 

the  fire,  and  Brenda,   who  was  closing  the  door, 
were  both  watching  her. 

*"  I  think,"  she  said  wearily,  '*  that  Theo  might 
have  been  here." 

Mrs.  Wylie  was  hungry  ;  perhaps  she  was  also 
slightly  irritated. 

"Why? "she  asked  mercilessly. 

Mrs.  Huston  unbuttoned  her  gloves  specula- 
tively, and  after  a  short  pause,  replied  : 

'*  Oh  ...  I  don't  know  !  I  thought  he  would 
come,  that  was  all." 

Mrs.  Wylie  made  no  pretense  of  concealing  a 
somewhat  impatient  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

^'  You  are  in  your  old  room,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
devoid  of  sympathy.  '•'  If  you  take  off  your  bon- 
net we  will  have  dinner  at  once.  It  will  warm  us 
up." 

Brenda  conducted  her  sister  to  the  bedroom 
assigned  to  her.  They  had  not  spoken  yet,  but  the 
girl's  attitude  was  distinctly  sympathetic  in  its 
bearing.  Women  have  a  silent  way  of  telling  us 
that  their  hearts  are  coming,  as  it  were,  towards 
us.  I  wonder,  my  brothers,  what  some  of  us 
would  do  without  that  voiceless  sympathy — with- 
out the  gentle  glance  that  penetrates  and  consoles 
at  one  time — without  the  touch  of  certain  fingers 
which,  though  light,  is  full  of  sweet  heart- 
felt pleading  to  be  allowed  a  share  of  the 
burden. 

Brenda  unpinned  her  sister's  veil,  and,  hovering 
round,  volunteered  here  and  there  a  quick  and 
deft  assistance. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  beautiful  woman  at 
length,  with  that  touch  of  helplessness  in  her  tone 
which  would  have  been  better  reserved  for  male 
ears,  "  why  I  feel  like  a  wliipped  child.     I  do  not 


3l8  SrSPEA^S/^. 

see  that  I  am  to  blaino  becauso  Alfred  chose  to  bp 
careless.     Of  course  it  was  an  accident." 

Brenda  did  not  answer  at  once.  Indeed,  they 
were  leaving  the  room  when  she  said  in  a  reassur- 
ing tone  : 

•'Undoubtedly  ii  was  an  accident." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone.  Whatever 
Mrs.  Huston's  faults  may  have  been,  she  never 
sought  undue  credit ;  siie  never  pretended  to  feel 
that  which  had  no  place  in  lier  heart.  Her  sins 
were  those  of  omission  rather  tiianof  commission. 
Despite  Mrs.  Wylie's  assurancie  to  the  conti-ury. 
Brenda  knew  then,  and  never  afterward  doubted, 
that  her  sister's  love  for  her  husband,  if  it  had 
ever  existed,  was  dead  at  the  time  of  his  sudden 
and  untimely  end. 

As  the  things  go  in  these  days,  we  can  hardly 
blame  this  beautiful  woman  for  liaving  loved,  and 
ceasing  to  love.  It  is  only  in  novels  of  to-day  and 
in  records  of  ancient  times  that  we  meet  with  an 
enduring  love.  The  fact  is,  we  see  too  many  of 
our  fellow-creatures  to  be  constant  to  a  few.  We 
drift  together,  and  we  drift  apart  again.  We 
vow  a  little,  perhaps,  and  protest  that  nothing 
shall  divide  ;  but  presently  tlie  streams  diverge. 
There  is  some  little  obstruction  in  the  bed  or 
pathway  ;  the  waters  i)art,  and  never  flow  together 
again.  We  merrymakers  dance  here  and  we 
dance  there ;  we  run  down  into  the  country 
by  an  evening  train  ;  dine,  dance,  make  love,  and 
come  to  town  at  an  early  hour.  The  next  night 
it  is  just  as  likely  as  not  that  v»-e  go  off  in  some 
other  direction  with  our  dress  clothes  in  a  bag  and 
our  hearts  conspicuously  on  our  sleeves  "  for  one 
night  only." 

It  was  all  very  well  for  those  inconsistent  old 


M/?S.  WVLIF.    TAKES   THE  OFFENSIVE.    319 

knights  (strurm'u  cunibiuations  of  poetry  and  bru- 
tality) to  be  faithful  to  tlie  young  person  remain- 
ing at  home  for  industrial  purposes:  it  was  very 
easy  for  the  young  person  in  question  to  think  of 
none  other  than  the  youth  who  wore  her  colors 
'twixt  armor  and  heart.  These  people  never  saw 
other  youths  and  other  maidens.  If  I  went  to  the 
Holy  Land,  I  am  confident  that  I  should  think 
only  of  a  cei'tain  small  person  left  behind  ;  and, 
moreover,  it  is  within  the  bounds  of  probability 
that  if  she  had  no  tennis  parties,  bachelors'  bidls, 
bazaars,  and  race-meetings,  she  would  pine  away 
her  youth  in  thoughts  of  me,  not  to  mention  ex- 
ecuting quite  a  quantity  of  unsightly  needle- 
work. 

These  reflections  must,  how-ever,  remain  strictly 
between  us.  It  would  not  do  for  the  general  pub- 
lic to  get  ear  of  them.  Let  us  rather  pound  away  at 
the  good  old  doctrine  of  true  love,  following  in  the 
footsteps  of  romancei's  since  the  days  of  Solomon. 
Your  hand,  my  brother  I  It  is  best  to  blind  one's 
self  at  times. 

Brenda  was  a  daughter  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, and  as  such  conceived  it  possible  that  love  can 
bloom  and  flourish  in  the  human  heart  only  to  die 
utterly  after  all.  Some  of  us  there  are,  perhaps, 
who,  having  once  loved,  carry  a  small  wound  with 
us  until  the  end  of  the  chapter  ;  but  the  majority 
Iiave  no  time  to  look  back  too  steadily.  Most  as- 
suredly Alice  Huston  was  not  one  of  the  former. 
I  believe  honestly  that  she  loved  her  husband  ;but 
I  am  also  convinced  that  before  his  death  she  had 
ceased  to  do  so — that  the  growth  had  died  down 
utterly  within  her  heart,  leaving  no  trace,  diffus- 
ing no  odor,  as  it  were,  of  better  things. 

Tbe  younger  sister  realized    all   this,  but   lier 


320  SUSP  EASE. 

blind  affection  for  the  woman  whose  existence  had 
been  so  closely  allied  to  her  own  made  excuses  and 
propounded  explanatory  theories  as  only  a  woman's 
love  can.  There  was  in  her  mind  an  indefinite 
feeling  of  antagonism  against  the  events  of  the 
last  few  montlis.  but  in  her  own  heart  she  blamed 
Alfred  Huston.  She  would  not  give  way  to  the 
ever-growing  conviction  that  her  sister  was  not 
(piite  free  from  the  taint  of  faultiness  in  thought 
or  action. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Ax     I  X  T  E  R  V  1  E  W. 

Ix  his  inner  life — his  domestic  environments — 
Theodore  Trist  was  not  a  comfortable  man.  There 
are  some  who,  possessing  luxurious  ways,  seem  to 
pass  through  the  trials  and  petty  Avoesoflife  with 
more  comfort  than  others.  This  is,  moreover, 
accomplished  without  the  expenditure  of  greater 
means.  Many  are  wanting  in  this  power  of  al- 
leviating crude  environments,  which,  however, 
goes  usually  with  a  very  small  capability  of  adapt- 
ing one's  self  to  circumstances. 

Trist  was  essentially  an  adaptable  fellow.  He 
never  seemed  to  notice  that  tlie  sheet  w;is  shorter 
than  the  blanket,  for  instance.  Nor  did  the  fact 
affect  his  eijuanimity  that  he  had  to  drink  his  tea 
without  milk  or  sugar.  It  was  not  that  he  failed 
to  perceive  these  things.  His  calling  and  his 
training  alike  made  it  necessary  that  he  should, 
Nor  was  it  that  his  mind  was  above  such  trifles  ; 
jiothing  was  so  small,  so  trivial,  as  to  be  beneath 


AX  IN-TERVIEW. 


321 


his  attention.  The  fact  was,  that  his  mental  and 
physical  discipline  was  such  that  in  recording 
hardship  he  had  come  to  look  upon  it  as  an  excuse 
for  so  much  printed  matter,  a  thing  to  write 
about,  but  of  which  it  was  useless  to  complain. 
He  was  an  observer,  not  an  autobiographer  ;  he 
recorded  the  hardships  of  others,  and  spoke  little 
of  his  own.  On  the  Danube,  and  later  in  Plevna, 
they  called  him  the  "philosopher.'" 

It  has  been  said  that  women  possess  the  faculty 
of  stamping  upon  the  rooms  in  which  they  dwell 
the  impress  of  their  own  individuality.  Surely 
this  power  is  not  confined  to  the  weaker  sex  alone. 
A  man  surrounds  himself  with  little  individual- 
ities as  well.  lie  is  more  individual  in  his  char- 
acteristics and  in  his  way  of  living.  Why  !  no  two 
men  fill  their  pipes  alike.  Some  there  are  who 
stuff  the  tobacco  in  hastily  ;  others  (the  luxurious 
type)  linger  over  the  operation  lovingly.  The  one 
has  no  sense  of  an  anticipatory  enjoyment ;  the 
other  is  already  enjoying  his  smoke  before  the 
pipe  is  lighted. 

Theodore  Trist's  room,  in  Jermyn  Street,  was 
very  like  himself.  There  was  an  indefinite  feel- 
ing of  readiness  about  il,  as  if  at  a  moment's  no- 
tice it  would  be  vacated,  or  turned  into  a  bedroom 
or  a  meeting-house.  There  were  no  curiosities 
lying  about,  no  mementos,  no  souvenirs  of  battle- 
field, no  mysterious  Eastern  jewelry  from  poetic 
harems,  such  as  lady-novelists  tell  us  we  who 
wander  love  to  have  about  us  when  we  loll  in 
divans,  and  smoke  narghiiis  at  home  in  England. 
Looking  round  bedroom  or  sitting-room,  one's 
first  feeling  was  a  conviction  that  in  ten  minutes 
the  dweller  therein  could  remove  all  trace  of  him- 
self and  his  belongings.     In  a  word,  the  room^ 


3aa  SUSPENSE. 

were  lamentably  bare.  It  is  a  pity  to  have  to 
record  this,  because  no  man  in  the  fiction  of  the 
day,  having  traveled  in  foreign  lands,  is  allowed 
to  live  afterward  like  an  English  gentleman.  It 
lias  been  the  good  fortune  of  the  present  writer 
to  meet  some  whose  lives  have  been  spent,  as  it 
were,  in  portmanteaus,  under  tents,  and  under 
(he  open  sky  ;  but  never,  except  in  ladies'  novels, 
licis  he  met  a  globe-ti'otter,  a  big  game-hunter,  or 
a  wandering  journalist,  who,  when  in  England, 
wears  Turkish  slijjpers,  an  Eastern  bernouse-like 
gown,  and  no  waistcoat.  Such  individuals  are  a 
race  apart  ;  and  in  some  respects  they  resemble  a 
pug-dog,  who  barks  much  and  bites  little.  In  the 
matter  of  travel,  their  imaginations  wander  far- 
ther afield  than  their  slippered  feet. 

Trist's  readiness  to  depart  at  any  moment  was 
a  literal  fact,  although  lie  tried  to  disguise  it. 
He  rather  ])rided  himself  upon  the  homelike  ap- 
pearance of  his  tobacco-scented  sitting-room  ;  but 
the  habit  of  being  always  ready,  of  knowing  ex- 
actly where  everything  was  to  be  found,  and  put- 
ting all  things  in  their  right  places,  was  so  strong 
in  him  that  a  sailorlike  neatness  was  his  only 
conception  of  human  comfort. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  adorning  his  apartment 
with  flowers  and  ornaments  in  anticipation  of 
Mrs.  Wylie's  visit,  he  committed  the  Philistine 
error  of  looking  round  to  see  that  nothing  was 
lying  about  without  visible  and  obvious  excuse. 
The  task  of  making  tidy  was  not  a  long  one. 
Before  going  out  to  dine  at  a  small  and  self-ab- 
negating club  he  had  dressed  so  that  lie  might 
be  ready  for  the  widow's  visit.  There  had  also 
been  a  long  and  serious  consultation  with  the 
landlady  about  tea  at  eight-thirty  ;  and  this  feast 


AN  rNTERVlEW.  323 

had  been  royally  prepared,  regardless  of  expense 
in  the  luxurious  matter  of  cream  from  the  dairy 
round  the  corner. 

There  was  a  gravity  almost  amounting  to  solem- 
nity in  the  war-correspondent's  demeanor  as  he  sat 
awaidng  his  gracious  visitor. 

"  I  am  afraid/'  lie  reflected,  with  character- 
istic calmness,  "  that  the  good  lady  is  not  pleased 
with  nie." 

This  fear  no  doubt  interfered  to  some  extent 
with  his  enjoyment  of  a  French  newspaper,  which 
he  had  just  freed  from  its  small  colored  wrapper. 
He  did  not  appear  to  be  deeply  interested  in  the 
Echns  de  Paris,  of  which  the  wit  failed  to  call  a 
smile  into  his  solemn  eyes.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  mat- 
ter of  conjecture  to  me  whether  he  had  read  any- 
thing at  all  (with  understanding)  when  the  rarely- 
used  front-door  bell  tinkled  dimly  in  the  beetle- 
haunted  basement.  Trist  laid  aside  the  news- 
paper, and  opened  the  door  of  his  room  just  as 
the  stairs  began  to  creak  under  the  comfortable 
step  of  Mrs.  Wylie. 

"  Well,  Theo,"  said  the  good  lady  cheerily. 
"Good-evening." 

Trist  shook  hands  very  gravely.  He  was  at  the 
moment  deeply  immersed  in  doubts  as  to  whether 
his  visitor  should  be  shown  to  his  bedroom  with 
a  view  of  removing  her  bonnet  before  his  shaving- 
glass,  or  whether  she  would  prefer  keeping  her 
out-door  apparel  with  her.  As  might  have  been 
expected,  Mrs.  Wylie  was  equal  to  the  occasion, 
and  settled  the  question  at  once. 

*'  I  will  just  open  my  sealskin,"  she  said,  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word.  "  It  is  bitterly  cold 
outside.  What  a  nice  fire,  but  .  .  .  what  a  bare 
room,  Theo  !     Have  you  no  sense  of  comfort  ?  " 


324  SC/SPEJVS/^. 

"  Bare  !  "  replied  Trist,  looking  routid  in  amaze- 
ment;  ''I  never  noticed  it." 

**  Naturally  you  would  not.  As  long  as  it  looks 
like  a  barrack-room,  and  tlio  furniture  suggests 
the  luxuries  of  camj^-life,  you  are  happy,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

Trist  laughed  in  a  fill-up-the-gap  style,  and 
busied  himself  with  a  teapot,  once  the  property  of 
hia  landlady's  grandmother,  and  correspondingly 
ugly.  This  versatile  man's  ways  M-ere  not  new  to 
Mrs.  Wylie  :  but  she  smiled  t<^  herself,  in  the  way 
people  smile  when  they  are  busy  collecting  ma- 
terials for  a  good  story,  as  she  watched  him  pour 
out  the  tea  and  maneuver  the  kettle.  It  did 
not  seem  to  enter  his  head  that  four  men  out 
of  five  would  have  asked  the  lady's  assistance  in 
such  a  case.  Perhaps  (for  women  note  sucii 
things)  she  also  remembered  afterward  that 
he  had  no  need  lo  inquire  after  her  taste  re- 
specting cream  and  sugar,  but  acted  boldly,  yet 
unobtrusively,  upon  knowledge  previously  ac- 
quired. 

"  And  now,"  she  said  in  a  determined  way 
when  the  cups  were  filled,  "light  your  pipe." 

"  I  do  not  think."  answered  he  with  mock 
hesitation,  ''that  such  a  proceeding  would  bo 
strictly  approved  of  by  the  laws  of  etiquette," 

"It  is  etiquette,  my  friend,  to  do  exactly  what 
a  lady  may  wish.  T  would  rather  you  smoked, 
because  I  want  to  talk  to  you  seriously — a  pastime 
I  rarely  indulge  in — and  I  think  tobacco  would 
assist  a  contemplative  attention  on  your  part.  I 
almost  wish  I  could  smoke  myself.  It  would 
facilitate  matters." 

In  ratio  to  the  increase  of  the  lady's  gravity  her 
companion's  si^drits  seomed  to  rise. 


AN  INTER  VIE  W.  325 

*'  After  that,"  he  replied  gaily,  '*  I  am  dumb, 
and  .  .  .  light  my  strongest  pipe." 

This  threat  he  carried  out  to  the  letter.  While 
Mrs.  Wylie  sipped  her  excellent  tea  and  appeared 
to  be  searching  in  her  mind  for  a  suitable  manner 
of  beginning  that  which  she  liad  to  say,  he  con- 
tinued to  puff  softly,  preserving  a  characteristic 
silence,  and  vouchsafing  that  contemplative  at- 
tention which  she  had  desired. 

"Theo,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  at  length  with  an 
intonation  upon  the  single  word  which,  by  some 
subtle  means,  caused  him  to  lay  aside  all  attempts 
at  hilarity. 

'•'Yes  i'^  he  replied,  removing  the  pipe  from 
his  lips  and  looking  across  the  table  at  her  with 
meek  inquiry. 

Most  people  would  have  thought  from  his  tone 
and  manner  that  he  was  ready  and  willing  to  ac- 
cede at  once  to  any  proposition,  to  follow  any 
course  of  action,  to  obey  without  comi^laint  or 
hesitation  ;  but,  as  hinted  on  a  previous  page, 
Mrs.  Wylie  knew  the  ways  of  this  man. 

She  did  not  meet  his  glance,  but  continued  to 
gaze  in  a  practically-abstracted  way  into  the 
fender,  while  with  one  liand  she  smoothed  a 
corner  of  her  sealskin  jacket. 

"  You  will  admit/'  she  continued  at  length 
with  apparent  irrelevance,  *'  that  every  action,  or 
every  course  of  action,  is  liable  to  several  con- 
structions." 

His  reply  was  ready  at  once — a  fact  worth  notic- 
ing in  a  man  whose  exterior  habits  would  have  led 
most  observers  to  a  belief  that  his  mental  method 
was  slow. 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  various  constructions  could 
jiot  well  be  taken   into   account  in  anticipation. 


•^26  SUSPENSE. 

Tlio  attempt  would  be  a  death-blow  to  all  ac- 
tion." 

The  astute  lady  knew  that  she  was  understood, 
so  she  moved  on  in  the  same  drift. 

*'I  admit  that/'  she  said  ;  "but  ...  in  a 
course  of  procedure,  the  construction  put  upon 
tlie  first  actions  should  be  allowed  to  carry  some 
weight  in  subsequent  proceedings.  If  ...  I 
mean  ...  it  is  deleterious  to  others,  the  course 
might  well  be  amended." 

Trist  acknowledged  the  ability  of  this  argument 
without  enthusiasm. 

"  Xevertheless,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  '''  people 
have  mapped  out  for  themselves  a  course  of 
action,  have  held  to  it  despite  adverse  criticism, 
and  have  in  the  end  been  triumphant." 

Mrs.  Wylie  now  looked  up  rather  keenly. 

*' Then,"  she  said  significantly,  ''yours  is  a 
course  of  action,  and  not  mere  idle  drifting  M'ith 
the  tide." 

Trist  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  met  lier 
glance  with  calm,  impenetrable  eyes.  He  was  in 
a  corner,  because  silence  was  naught  but  con- 
fession. 

"Am  I,"  he  inquired  imperturbably,  "the 
sort  of  man  to  drift  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  ;  '*  you  are  not.  But, 
Theo,  are  you  sure  that  you  are  doing  right  ?  I 
don't  want  to  interfere  in  tho  sligiitest  degree 
with  your  action  so  long  as  it  concerns  only  your- 
self. You  are  quite  cajiable  of  looking  after  your 
own  affairs,  I  know,  quite  sure  of  yourself,  utterly 
reliant  ujion  your  own  strength  of  purpose  ;  but! 
want  you  to  remember  that  women  cannot  be  so 
self-dependent  as  men.  However  strong  they  may 
be,  however  capable,  however  brilliant,  they  must 


AN  INTER  VIE  IV.  327 

give  in  a  little  to  the  usages  and  customs  of  society, 
they  must  consider  the  praise  or  blame  of  their 
neighbors.  Such  praise  or  blame  is  part  of  their 
life,  an  important  factor  in  their  happiness  or 
sorrow,  and  all  tlie  woman's  rights  in  the  world 
will  make  no  difference." 

Tri.sL  had  left  his  seat  during  this  speech.  He 
went  to  the  fireplace  and  removed  the  kettle, 
which  was  boiling  with  mistaken  ardor,  to  a  cooler 
spot.  He  stood  erect  upon  the  hearthrug,  and 
looked  down  into  the  pleasant  woman's  face  up- 
turned toward  him.  His  hands  were  clasped  be- 
hind his  back,  and  there  v/as  on  his  face  an  en- 
couraging smile.  Seeing  it,  the  widow  con- 
tinued : 

**  I  came  to-night,  Theo,  because  I  wanted  to 
come  to  some  understanding  with  you,  even  at 
the  risk  of  being  considered  meddlesome  and  un- 
necessarily anxious." 

''  That  risk  is  small,  Mrs.  Wylie." 

*'  Thank  you.  IS'ow  I  am  going  to  be  frank 
with  you — not  with  the  view  of  forcing  a  recipro- 
cal frankness  upon  you,  but  because  it  is  the  best 
method  of  saying  difficult  things.  You  disapprove 
of  obtrusive  frankness,  I  know." 

Trist  laughed,  and  did  not  deny  this  accusation. 
Mrs.  Wylie's  cup  was  empty,  and  he  made  a  step 
forward  and  took  it  from  her  hand  with  grave 
courtesy. 

''  Will  you  have  some  more  tea  ?"  he  inquired 
incidentallv. 

''Thanks  ;  I  will." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which  the 
young  fellow  deftly  manipulated  the  teapot. 

"  The  girls,"  said  the  lady  reflectively,  as  she 
stirred  her  second  cup,  **  are,  in  a  certain  manner. 


328  SO'S/'LASE. 

cast  upon  my  hands.  I  am  morally  responsible 
for  their  good  name.  Owing  to  an  unfortunate 
chain  of  circumstances,  they  occupy  at  the  i)resent 
moment  rather  a  prominent  position  in  idle  con- 
versation. They  cannot  be  too  careful — you 
understand  .   .   .  ?" 

She  stopped  short  because  Trist's  movements, 
■which  were  rather  restless,  told  her  plainly  enough 
that  he  had  already  got  a  long  way  in  advance  of 
lier  thoughts. 

*'  You  wish,''  he  said,  "  to  forbid  me  the  house 
just  now." 

Mrs.  "Wylio  was  not  improving  the  texture  of 
the  lace  handkerchief  she  continued  to  twist 
round  her  finger.  For  some  seconds  she  made  no 
answer.  She  almost  hoped  that  by  waiting  she 
would  effect  a  slight  breach  in  the  impenetrable 
wall  of  reserve  with  which  this  man  seemed  to 
find  pleasure  in  surrounding  himself.  In  this, 
however,  she  was  disappointed.  His  power  of 
unembarrassed  silence  was  unique  in  a  Western- 
born  man. 

**  Had  it  been  any  one  else,"  she  said  at  length, 
"I  should  have  been  obliged  to  do  so.  With 
you  it  is  quite  another  matter.  You  are  different 
from  other  men,  Theo.  /  know  that,  but  the 
general  public  does  not,  and  consequently  judges 
you  by  the  same  standard  as  it  judges  others.'" 

"  They  are  quite  right  in  doing  that.  I  have 
a  great  respect  for  the  genorid  public.'' 

The  wadow  looked  rather  skeptical  respecting 
the  latter  statement,  but  did  not  raise  the  ques- 
tion. 

''It  is  not," she  continued  gravely,  ''  from  that 
point  of  view  that  I  look  at  it.  Indeed,  I  should 
be  inclined  in  any  case  to  leave  it  to  jou,  because 


AN  IXTER  VIE  ;r.  32^ 

I  think  that  you  are  gifted  with  a  great  Btrength 
of  purpose.  No  consideration  of  public  censure, 
public  blame,  or  public  commentary  would  force 
me  to  speak  to  you  upon  a  subject  which  I  hon- 
estly believe  to  be  better  left  undiscussed.  1  be- 
lieve that  every  man,  Theo,  every  woman,  ever^ 
youth,  and  every  girl,  knows  his  or  her  own  busi- 
ness best.  I  believe  we  are  all  capable  of  manag- 
ing our  own  affairs  better  than  the  kindest  of  our 
neighbors  could  manage  them  for  us.  In  this  you 
agree  with  me — is  it  not  so  ?'' 

"I  thought,"  replied  Theo,  without  meeting 
her  glance,  "  that  that  theory  was  mine.  I  must 
have  learnt  it  unconsciously  from  you." 

*'•  It  has  always  been  my  conviction  that  you 
are  a  man  singularly  capable  of  managing  your 
own  affairs,  and  in  my  own  sex  I  have  fancied  that 
I  know  a  counterpart.   ,   .   " 

*'  Yes?  .  .  ."  interrogated  Trist  in  a  semi- 
tone, divining  that  he  was  expected  to  do  so. 

'•  Brenda  !"  said  Mrs.  Wylie  simply. 

She  had  crossed  her  hands  on  her  lap,  and  as 
her  lips  framed  the  girl's  name,  she  raised  her 
head  slowly  and  fixed  her  pleasant,  keen  glance 
on  him.  He  stood  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  leaning  lightly  against  the  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece.  The  single  gas-jet  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned chandelier  cast  a  most  uncompromising 
light  upon  his  face  ;  his  eyes  were  raised,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  contemplating  the  invention  of  a 
new  burner. 

Without  detracting  anything  from  the  scrutiny 
to  which  she  was  subjecting  him,  she  continued 
speaking. 

"  Now  .  .  ,"  she  said  with  some  energy, 
*' Brenda  is  miserable." 


330  Sl/SPEXSA'. 

For  some  seconds  his  faco  wj-s  perfectly  motion- 
less. His  eyelids  did  not  even  move.  It  was  a 
triuinjili  of  inscrutability.  Tlien  ho  moved  his 
lips,  pursing  them  up  in  a  maimer  expressive  of 
thoughtfulness  and  doubt  combined. 

"Why?" 

*'  That."  replied  Mrs.  Wylie,  turning  away,  **  is 
exactly  what  J  want  to  know." 

Trist  did  not  appear  to  be  in  a  position  to  sup- 
ply the  required  information.  The  conversation 
was  becoming  decidedly  strained,  and  Mrs.  Wylie, 
while  feeling  her  sang-froid  gradually  warming,  as 
it  were,  noticed  that  there  w'as  plenty  of  staying- 
power  in  her  companion  still,  lie  did  not  at  that 
moment  look  like  a  man  about  to  be  betrayed  into 
a  hasty  exposition  of  his  inward  thoughts  or  feel- 
ings. On  motives  of  prudence  she  therefore  re- 
lieved the  strain. 

"  Brenda,"  she  said,  **  has  been  terribly  worried 
by  Alice,  I  know.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  you  kept 
out  of  their  way  for  some  little  time  it  would  be 
conducive  to  a  more  peaceful  frame  of  mind  all 
round — do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  was  thinking  of  going  over  to  Paris. 
If  there  is  a  war  in  the  spring,  I  shall  have  work 
to  do  for  one  or  two  French  papers,  aiul  it  is  best 
to  have  these  things  arranged  in  advance." 

Mrs.  Wylie  winced.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
dragged  in  the  unpleasant  little  monosyllal'le  with 
the  purpose  of  reminding  her  of  his  profession. 
By  some  feminine  course  of  logic  she  had  reasoned 
herself  into  a  belief  tliat  Theo  Trist  would  go  to  no 
more  campaigns,  and  now  she  grew  pale  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  still  a  war-correspondent — 
she,  who  prided  herself  upon  her  freedom  from 
that  gnawing  sorrow  called  anxiety.     The  readi- 


AN  INTER  VIE  W.  33 1 

ness  with  which  he  acceded  to  her  half  hint  that 
his  absence  would  be  au  advantage  was  completely 
marred  by  the  mention  of  a  possible  war,  and  she 
relented  at  once,  seeking  some  other  expedient 
than  banishment. 

"  Would  you  go  if  there  were  another  war  ?  " 
she  asked. 

'*  Yes,"  he  replied  coolly. 

She  made  no  comment,  and  the  subject  was 
dropped.  She  had  made  this  Tisit  with  the  full 
iuteniion  of  coming  to  a  definnite  knowledge  of 
facts  with  Trist.  Her  chief  desire  had  been  to 
find  out  whether  there  was  an  understanding  be- 
tween Alice  Huston  and  himself  such  as  the  world 
assigned  ;  but  in  this  she  had  failed.  Theo  would 
tell  her  nothing  more  than  he  chose,  and  she  rec- 
ognized in  him  a  match  in  the  matter  of  social 
diplomacy.  His  motives  were  a  puzzle  to  her  ; 
she  could  not  even  come  to  a  reasonable  conclusion 
concerning  his  feelings.  It  was  possible  that  he 
loved  Alice  Huston,  but  it  was  also  possible  thnt 
he  loved  Brenda.  Again,  she  had  no  definite 
reason  for  supposing  that  he  loved  either  of  them, 
because  his  manner  to  both  was  that  of  a  friend. 
However,  the  clear  object  of  her  visit  had  been 
attained— namely,  that  Trist  should  absent  him- 
self for  some  tim'^e,  and  with  this  she  was  content, 
looking  to  further  enlightenment  in  the  future. 


33*  SVSPEMSE. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SOUTHWARD. 

Theodore    Trist  bad  not  over-estimated  his 
powers  in  informing  Brenda  that  lie  had  some  in- 
fluence with  the  newspapers.     The  story  of  Cap- 
tain Huston's  sudden  death  never  became  public 
property  ;  indeed,  there  was    no  mention  made  of 
the   inquest.     The  result  of  an  accident   was  all 
detail  vouchsafed  to  the  public.     There  was,  by 
the  way,  some  virtuous  indignation   expressed  in 
the  columns   of  a    halfpenny  weekly  publication 
possessing  a  small  circulation  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  West  India  Dock  Road.     This  just  wrath 
was  excited  by  the  evident   suppression  of  detail, 
and  the  scant   courtesy  with  which    their   repre- 
sentative had  been  received  by  a  gentleman — him- 
self a  journalist — who  was  closely  connected  with 
the  disgraceful  death    of  this  British  officer.     In 
cheap  type,  upon  a  poor  quality  of  paper,  and  iu 
vile  English,  this  self-constituted    representative 
of  the  thirsting  British  public  demanded  further 
details.     He  expressed   himself  surprised  that  an 
enlightened  nation  should  stand  idly  by  while  tho 
aristocracy  of  the  overburdened  land  deliberately 
plotted  to  screen  its   own    debauched  proceedings 
from   public   censure.      The    enlightened    nation 
either  failed  to  spend  a  halfpenny  foolishly  (thus 
neglecting  its    own  interests),  or  it   preferred  to 
continue  standing  by.     Moreover,  the  debauched 
iiristocracy  showed  no  signs  of  quailing  beneath 


SOUTHWARD. 


Zll 


the  lash  of  a  relentless  press.  It  is  lust  possible, 
however,  that  they  had  neither  seen  the  newspaper 
in  question  nor  Jieard  of  its  existence. 

The  demand  for  further  details  must  have  failed 
to  reach  the  delinquents  concerned.  At  all  events, 
there  was  no  reply,  the  error  was  never  repaired, 
and  the  Times  failed  to  take  up  the  cudgels  and 
fight  for  their  common  rights  side  by  side  with  its 
powerful  contemporary. 

80  Alfred  Woodruff  Charles  Huston  was  laid, 
not  with  his  own,  but  Avith  the  forefathers  of 
some  one  else  in  Wiilesden  Cemetery.  Poor  fellow  ! 
he  came  from  a  military  stock,  brave  men  and 
true,  Avho  had  fought  and  drunk  and  finally  de- 
posited their  bones  in  many  parts  of  the  globe. 
1  am  not  by  habit  a  sentimental  person — moon- 
light over  water,  for  instance,  or  the  whisper  of 
the  pine-trees,  has  a  certain  quieting  effect  upon 
me,  though  it  does  not  make  me  drivel ;  but  I  see 
the  great  silent  pathos  of  our  huge  graveyards. 
If  I  never  pitied  Alfred  Huston  when  he  was  alive, 
I  pity  him  now  in  his  narrow  bed — one  of  many 
— an  insignificant  volume  in  God's  book-shelf. 
Thus  the  Almighty  is  pleased  to  shelve  us  in  rows. 
Sometimes  He  classifies  us,  and  we  are  labeled  with 
a  title  somewhat  similar  to  that  on  the  stones  near 
at  hand  ;  but  nowadays  Ave  stray  aAvay  from  the 
original  corner  of  the  library,  and  Avhen  the  end 
comes  we  find  ourselves  among  strangers.  In 
some  country  churchyard  it  is  sad  enough  to  see  a 
cluster  of  moldering  stones  all  bearing  the  same 
name,  but  infinitely  more  pathetic  is  it  to  wander 
through  the  serried  ranks  of  the  dead  at  Brook- 
wood,  Wiilesden,  or  Brompton.  It  is  like  a 
"sundry"  shelf,  Avhere  all  odd  volumes  are 
hastilj  thrust  mf\  goon  forgotten :  for  poetry  is 


334  SVSPE//SE. 

side  by  side  with  commerce,  fame  elbows  ob- 
scurity, youth  lies  by  age.  We  scan  the  names, 
and  find  no  connectioji.  Truly  these  are  among 
strangers — they  sleep  not  vith  their  fathers.  And 
the  shelves  fill  up,  showing  naught  but  titles. 
The  books  are  closed,  the  tale  is  told,  and  so  it 
raolders  until  the  leaves  shall  flutter  again  heneath 
the  searching  finger  of  the  Almighty.  Sooner  be 
buried  in  the  common  ditch  beneath  a  weight  of 
red-coated  humanity  than  amidst  these  unknown 
thousands — sooner,  a  thousand  times  sooner,  lie 
in  patient  solitude  on  untrodden  rocks  beneath 
the  wave ! 

Alfred  Huston's  name  is  doubtless  to  be  found 
in  TVillesden  Cemetery  to-day,  though  I  do  not 
know  of  any  one  who  will  care  to  seek  it.  His 
wife  caused  it  to  be  recorded  in  imperishable 
letters  of  lead,  as  if,  mes  freres,  it  had  not  as  well 
been  writ  in  water.  It  stands,  moreover,  in  the 
State  archives  amidst  a  long  record  of  heroes  M'ho 
drew  their  pay  with  remarkable  regularity,  and 
did  little  else.  It  was  very  good  of  her  to  go  to 
*he  expense  of  those  leaden  letters,  considering 
what  an  enormous  number  of  mourning  garments 
she  was  absolutely  compelled  to  buy.  The 
thought  even  is  worthy  of  praise,  because  her 
mind  was  fully  occupied  with  questions  of  crape 
and  caps.  Let  us,  therefore,  give  full  credit  to 
this  widow  who,  in  order  to  do  more  honor  to 
her  husband's  memory,  sent  some  of  her  dresses 
back  four  times  to  the  milliners  because  the 
bodice  would  not  fit. 

One  December  morning  three  ladies  dressed  in 
black  (two,  indeed,  wore  widows'  weeds)  left 
Charing  Cross  Station  for  Paris.  Mrs.  AVylie, 
in  her  wisdom,  liad  decreed  a  short  banishment, 


SOUTHWARD.  331; 

"  Let  ns/'  slie  said  cheerily,  the  day  after  Cap- 
tain Hustou's  semi-surreptitious  funeral — "  let  us 
get  away  from  all  this  fog  and  cold  and  misery.  I 
want  sunshine.  Let  us  go  south — Nice,  Biarritz, 
Arcaohon  !      Which  shall  it  be  ?" 

''  We  misjht/'  suggested  Alice  Huston,  "  stay 
a  few  days  in  Paris  on  the  way." 

Brenda  was  reading,  and  before  taking  note  of 
these  remarks  she  finished  a  page,  which  she 
turned  slowly,  as  one  turns  the  page  of  a  thought- 
ful book  requiring  slow  perusal.  She  looked  up 
at  the  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  then  her 
pensive  gaze  wandered  toward  Mrs.  AVylie's   face. 

"  Not  the  Riviera,"  she  said  persuasively.  "It 
is  like  beef-tea  when  one  is  in  rude  health." 

*'  I  must  say,"  observed  Mrs.  Wylie,  after  a 
pause,  *'  that  I  prefer  the  Atlantic  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean." 

"  Let  ns  stay  a  little  time  in  Paris  first,"  said 
Alice  eagerly,  "  and  go  on  to  Arcachon,  or  some- 
where for  Christmas.  We  might  hear  in  Paris  of 
nice  people  going  South." 

The  expression  of  the  elder  widow's  face  was 
not  quite  so  sympathetic  as  might  have  been  ex- 
pected upon  sentimental  grounds. 

*'  Why,"  she  inquired,  with  dangerous  suavity, 
**  why  are  you  so  anxious  to  stay  in  Paris  ?  It  is 
no  better  than  London  in  winter." 

Mrs.  Huston  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  child- 
like inconsequence.  It  was  rather  hard  to  expect 
her  to  have  definite  reasons  ready   for  production. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  It 
would  be  a  nice  change.  I  think  we  would  all 
find  a  place  like  Biarritz  or  Arcachon  intolerably 
slow.     We  want  taking  out  of  ourselves." 

Mrs.  Wylie  nodded  in  a  moderately  sympathetic 


2^6  SO'SP£jVAi. 

way.  The  tliree  ladies  knew  that  Theodore  Trisb 
wua  in  Paris,  and  Mrs.  AVylic,  without  looking  in 
Brenda's  direction,  liad  seen  a  change  come  over 
the  girl's  face  at  tlie  inentiou  of  the  word.  A  sin- 
gular change  it  was  for  so  young  a  face — ratlier 
unpleasant,  too,  in  its  cfToot.  For  a  moment  her 
features  appeared  to  contract,  and  a  gray  set  look 
came  into  lier  eyes.  This  singulaV  clToct  was 
slowly  fading  when  Alice  again  montionod  Paris, 
and  instantaneously  the  apnthoii.-  cliill  seemed  to 
spread  over  Brcnda's  being  again. 

'*'  I  hate  Paris  in  winter  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wylio  de- 
cisively, '-'  The  wind  is  cutting,  the  streets  are 
crowded  with  excited  women  carrying  larger  par- 
cels, and  moreof  them,  tliau  tlieirliml)s  were  in- 
tended to  carry,  and  altogether  it  is  horrible.  AVo 
will  stay  one  niglit  if  you  like,  but  not  morr.  In 
coming  bock  we  can  stop  perhnps.  Besides  .  .  , 
Alice,  I  do  not  think  it  would  do  for  you  to  l»o 
seen  in  Paris  just  now.'' 

Alice  did  not  meet  her  friend's  gaze.  There 
was  an  unpleasant  silence  of  some  n^jmcnts' dura- 
tion, and  then  she  murmured  in  a  prettily  petu- 
lant way  : 

'*'  It  is  rather  hard  that  I  should  be  expected 
to  bury  myself  alive." 

In  this  wise  it  Avas  settled,  and  the  three  ladies 
passed  through  Paris  without  seeing  aught  of  the 
cosmopolitan  journalist,  whose  presence  in  the 
French  capital  Avas  a  matter  of  public  discussion. 
Some  papers  even  went  so  far  as  to  refer  to  it  as 
the  immediate  precursor  of  an  outbre;ik  of  hostil- 
ities between  France  and  Germany,  and  took  the 
opportunity  of  reminding  the  citizens  that  every 
Frenchman  tliirsted  for  the  gory  cup  of  veiigeance. 

Mrs.   M'ylio  was  fully  aware  of  the  fact  that  had 


SOUTHWARD.  ;^^f 

Theodore  Trist  so  desired,  he  would  have  managed 
to  see  them  somehow  in  passing  ;  but  she  opined 
that  he  would  not  do  so,  and  in  this  she  was  right. 
He  actually  knew  that  they  were  in  Paris,  hut 
avoided  them  with  an  ease  which  showed  his  in- 
timate acquaintance  with  the  ways  of  the  French 
capital. 

Alice  Huston  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  her 
contempt  for  Bordeaux,  where  a  halt  of  one  night 
was  necessary,  and  arrived  at  midday  at  Arcachon 
with  tlie  full  intention  of  disliking  the  place 
heartily.  Personally,  I  have  no  interest  in  the 
town,  not  holding  any  shares  in  the  Casino,  nor 
claiming  relationship  with  persons  keeping  hotels 
there  ;  but  it  shall  always  be  my  honest  endeavor 
to  treat  people  and  places  alike  with  justice. 
There  is  no  denying  the  fact  that  certain  parts 
of  the  little  French  watering-place,  more  especially 
toward  La  Teste,  are  not  savory  of  odor  ;  but 
Alice  was  hardly  justified  in  the  ^^se  of  the  word 
"disgusting"  in  this  respect.  It  happened  to  be 
blowing  steadily  from  the  westward,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, the  air  was  heavy  with  the  distant  con- 
tinuous roar  of  Atlantic  breakers  surging  on  to  the 
deserted  shore  across  the  Basin. 

*'  I  know  what  that  is,"  said  Alice  impatiently 
on  hearing  it,  which  they  did  not  fail  to  do  as 
soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  train  ;  *'  that  is  surf. 
It  is  the  same  as  at  Madras.  Horrid  I  I  never 
sleiH  a  wink." 

It  was  only  to  be  heard  during  certain  winds — • 
a  very  rare  direction  of  the  wind,  explained  the 
hotel  porter,  who  understood  enough  English  to 
catch  what  was  being  said.  He  had  explained 
only  that  morning  to  a  sontimental  English  lady 
of  uncertain  age,  who  loved  the  sad  song  of  the 


338  SUSPENSE. 

\^'aves  with  all  the  gushing  ardor  of  her  poetic 
Bonl,  tluit  the  said  song  was  always  there,  floating 
in  the  air  above  the  pines.  Besides,  knowing  the 
times  of  the  trains  and  the  price  of  hired  carriages, 
this  man  was  by  no  means  ignorant  in  the  ways  of 
sweet  deception.  He  was  a  good  hotel-porter,  and 
could  lie  Avith  conviction  when  lie  tried. 

Imagine  a  fishing  village  shaken  up  in  a  huge  box 
with  a  fashionable  watering-place,  an<l  set  down 
pell-mell  at  the  edge  of  a  large  inlet  of  the  sea, 
and  you  have  Arcachon.  Amidst  the  pines,  on 
the  slopes  behind  the  town,  are  villas,  where  hy- 
pochondriacs live  and  imbibe-the  wondrous  breath 
of  the  maritime  pine.  Oysters  arc  cheap,  and 
the  air  is  invigorating.  From  the  westward  the 
wind  blows  directly  across  the  broad  Atlantic; 
from  tho  east  it  sighs  through  trackless  forests. 
Beyond  that  there  is  little  to  recommend  this 
southern  town,  though  some  of  us  may  think 
highly  of  such  important  adjuncts  to  human  hap- 
piness as  oysters  and  atmosphere. 

A  certain  spasmodic  sociability  flickers  through 
tho  small  English  colony,  consisting,  as  most  of 
our  Continental  colonies  do,  of  military  men  and 
retired  civil  servants  suffering  cither  from  slender 
parses  or  nnsatisfactory  lungs.  Among  these  tho 
advent  of  tho  three  ladies  caused  a  distinct  flutter, 
and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  several  dresses, 
and  not  a  few  bonnets,  were  subsequently  rebuilt 
iipon  new  and  approved  lines. 

The  flutter  was  scarcely  reciprocal.  Brenda 
was  not  at  this  period  inclined  to  indiscriminate 
sociability.  She  was  in  a  critical  frame  of  mind, 
and  the  intellectual  standard  of  the  average  Briton 
residing  abroad  will  not  bear  criticism.  Alice 
found  the  retired  civil  servants  intolerably  trivial 


SOUTHWARD.  339 

and  dull.  The  old  soldiers  were  men  of  a  bygone 
day  when  tlie  army  had  not  gone  to  the  dogs, 
which  departure  seemed  to  date  from  the  time  oi" 
their  several  resignations. 

Mrs.  Wylie  noted  these  things,  and  took  them 
with  her  usual  placid  cheerfulness.  She  had  not 
expected  much  and  was  in  nowise  disappointed — 
the  blessed  privilege  of  pessimists.  She  looked 
upon  the  three  weeks  spent  at  Arcachon  as  an 
unpleasant  interlude,  necessary  and  unavoidable,, 
and  while  there  made  herself  as  comfortable  as 
circumstances  allowed,  according  to  her  wont. 

Thus  Christmas  with  its  forced  festivity  waa 
tided  over.  I  sometimes  wonder  Avhy  that  happy 
season  in  each  recurring  year  stands  out  upoji  the 
road  of  life  like  public-houses  on  the  roads  we 
tread  here  below.  Wise  men  direct  Jehu  by  the 
Spotted  Dog  or  the  Marquis  of  Granby,  and  I 
think  most  of  us  divide  our  journey  into  stages 
(some  consciously,  others  without  realizing  it), 
marked  and  defined  by  the  Christmas  Day  at  the 
end  of  each.  It  is  the  25th  of  December  tliat 
stands  clearly  marked  in  my  memory  as  having 
been  passed  in  some  outlying  corner  of  the  world 
in  each  successive  year.  There  is  no  record  of 
the  24th  or  the  26th.  Having  devoted  some 
thought  to  this  matter,  I  have  concluded  that  the 
memory  is  closely  connected  with  the  appetite. 
There  are  certain  dishes  set  apart  for  consumption 
on  Christmas  Day,  and  the  absence  or  presence  in 
perfection  of  these  remains  indelibly  engraved  on 
the  mind. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  Christmas  spent 
at  Arcachon  by  the  three  ladies  was  not  of  a  very 
festive  character;  but  it  should  be  remembered 
that  two  of  them  were  widows,  and  the  third  a 


340  SUSPENSE. 

thoughtful  young  person  of  by  no  means  a  gay 
and  lightsome  heart. 

Early  in  January  they  turned  their  faces  home- 
ward, and  by  mutual  tacit  consent  parted  company 
in  Paris.  It  happened  that  Alice  Huston  met 
Komc  friends  there,  who  pressed  her  to  stay  on 
with  thora,  pleading  to  Mrs.  Wylie  that  a  change 
would  be  beneficial  to  the  spirits  c>f  the  young 
widow.  Brenda  returned  to  Suffolk  Mansions 
with  the  Admiral's  widow. 


■A. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THEODORE  TRIST  IS   AROUSED. 

In  a  quiet  street  leading  out  of  the  Boulevard 
de  la  Madeleine,  there  is  a  large  red-stone  house 
with  golden  letters,  each  the  size  of  a  man,  be- 
tween the  windows  of  the  second  and  third  floors. 
These  letters  spell  a  three-syllabled  word,  which 
is  known  in  all  the  civilized  world  as  the  name  of 
the  greatest  journal  in  France.  For  steadiness 
there  is  no  newspaper  in  all  the  new  republic  to 
rival  it.  No  false  news  was  ever  published  within 
the  walls  of  that  red-stone  house,  nor  sent  forth 
to  the  French-speaking  world  from  its  portals. 
Its  correspondence  is  conducted  with  that  appar- 
ent lavishness  which  is  the  secret  of  successful 
journalism  in  these  days.  Good  pay  to  ^ood  men 
is  a  motto  that  might  well  be  inscribed  m  golden 
letters  beneath  the  window  of  the  second  floor. 
There  is  upon  the  first  story  of  this  house  a  large 
room  furnished  somewhat  in  the  style  adopted  by 


THEODORE  TRIST  IS  AROUSED-  341 

English  clubs.  That  is  to  say,  the  chairs,  tables, 
and  bookcases  are  of  a  heavier  type  than  is  iisuallv 
found  in  private  houses.  Unlike  most  French 
rooms  the  floor  is  entirely  covered  with  a  Brussels 
carpet.  There  are  several  small  oak  tables  fur- 
nished with  blotting-pad,  inkstand,  and  pen-tray. 
I  regret  to  say  that  cigarette-ash  and  cigarette 
ends  are  habitually  thrown  upon  the  floor, 
although  uumerons  receptacles  are  provided  on 
the  larger  table  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
room. 

This  apartment  serves  as  an  anteroom  to  the 
offices  of  the  editor  and  sub-editor,  and  on  some 
days  in  the  week  there  may  be  seen  an  assembly 
of  all  that  there  is  of  journalistic  and  literary 
talent  in  France. 

One  evening  in  January,  Theodore  Trist  was 
standing  near  the  huge  white-china  stove  talking 
Avith  a  group  of  long-haired  confreres  of  the  ready 
pen.  They  were  laughing — not  in  that  airy, 
careless  way  which  is  generally  considered  by 
Englishmen  as  the  prerogative  of  their  Gallic 
cousins — but  softly,  and  without  much  genuine 
amiisement.  There  were  others  in  the  room, 
seated  at  the  smaller  tables,  writing,  which  would 
account  for  the  lowered  tones  of  the  group  round 
the  stove. 

Presently  a  liveried  servant  came  toward  them. 

*'  Monsieur  Trist,"  he  ventured,  standing  at  a 
respectful    distance  from  the  brilliant  group. 

A  silence  fell  over  the  talkers,  while  Theo 
Trist  turned  and  asked  by  whom  he  was  wanted. 

''  It  is,"  replied  the  servant,  "  a  portier  of  the 
H6tel  Bristol,  inquiring  if  monsieur  was  in  Paris 
at  present." 

''And  you  said  ,  ,  ,  V* 


343  SUSPENSE, 

"1  said  that  I  would  inquire." 

A  young  rrenchmaii,  whoso  poems  were  charm- 
ing all  readers  just  then,  laughed  merrily. 

"Jules,"  he  said,  with  a  sly  glance  toward 
the  Englishman,  "  is  discreet." 

"  It  would  never  do,"  interpolated  an  older 
man,  with  grave  approval,  "  if  Jules  were  not  so. 
This  u  the  homo  of  discretion.  Who  knows  that 
this  portier  is  a  porticr  at  all  ?  Is  it  not  easy  to 
buy  a  hat-baud  with  the  word  '  Bristol '  embroid- 
ered upon  it  ?  lie  may  bo  an  emissary  from  some 
journal  of  the  Boulevards  to  collect  information 
— the  material  for  a  canard — price  t\vo  sous.'' 

Trist  smiled  meekly,  and  moved  away  with  the 
servant  at  his  heels. 

"  Co  Trist,"  continued  the  older  writer,  when 
he  Avas  out  of  earshot,  '*  cannot  come  and  go  as 
we  can — we  who  write  but  romances  and  idle 
paragraphs.  It  is  a  political  power  beneath  that 
broad  forehead,  behind  those  Avoman's  eyes.  He 
smells  of  war.  It  is  the  stormy  petrel,  my 
friends." 

"  I  will  see  him,"  Trist  had  said  to  the  servant 
as  they  crossed  the  room  together.  "But  do  not 
sav  who  I  am." 

Jules  bowed  in  grave  reproach  at  the  implied 
possibility  of  an  indiscretion. 

"In  the  small  room,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  in  the  small  room." 

"When  the  portier  of  the  Hotel  Bristol  entered 
the  small  room,  he  found  a  gentleman  seated  at 
a  table  writing. 

"  You  seek  Monsieur  Trist  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"  For  a  public  or  a  private  purpose  ?** 

The  portier  had  received  his  instructions. 


THEODORE   TRIST  IS  AkOUSED.  34^ 

*'  It  is  private,  monsienr,  quite  private.  It  is 
but  a  small  word  from  a  lady  in  the  hotel." 

''An  English  lady?" 

"  An  English  lady,  monsieur  ;  a  widow,  I  believe. 
A  Madame  Huston,  on  the  second  floor." 

Trist  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  he  said  gently  ;  "  I  am  Theo- 
dore Trist.  The  answer  shall  be  despatched  pres- 
ently.    You  need  not  wait." 

As  the  messenger  left  the  room,  Trist  broke 
open  the  envelope  and  unfolded  a  dainty  note. 
Ho  read  it  carefully,  and  then  leant  back  hisurelv 
in  his  chair.  There  was  a  peculiar  expression 
upon  his  face,  half-annoyed,  half-puzzicd.  And 
(why  should  it  be  withlield  ?)  beneath  the  sun- 
burn on  his  cheeks  there  was  a  slight  change  of 
color.  Theodoro  Trist  experienced  a  strange 
sense  of  warmth  in  his  countenance,  and  wondered 
what  it  meant.  He  was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
his  cheek  was  attempting  to  blush.  From  the 
expression  of  his  eyes,  however,  this  was  not  a 
sign  of  pleasure.  He  was  ashamed  of  that  note, 
and  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  minutes  he  rose  and 
threw  it  into  the  stove,  the  brass  door  which  he 
opened  deftly  with  the  toe  of  his  boot. 

There  are  times  in  our  lives  when  we  have 
cause  to  feel  ashamed  of  human  passions,  and 
even  of  human  nature.  Even  if  wo  be  optimists, 
we  can  scarcely  pass  through  existence  without 
finding  that  human  nature  is  a  sorry  business 
after  all.  It  is  only  right  that  we  should  ex- 
perience a  sense  of  shame  when  brought  face  to 
face  with  such  passions  as  jealousy  or  hatred,  but 
God  forbid  that  wc  should  ever  be  asiiamed  of 
love  !  There  is  not  too  much  dignity  in  our  daily 
Jives,  and  therefore  let  us  hold  one  factor  of  it 


344  SUSFEA'SJ-:. 

Bucrct],  Let  us  leave  uulouched  the  dignity  of 
love.  If  there  be  one  8(>cd  of  shame  in  the  flower, 
the  disease  will  grow  and  flourisli  until  the  bloom 
dies  away  entirely.  From  the  cradle  to  the  grave 
we  have  but  one  ]'>ure  and  holy  thing  in  life.  We 
are  never  free  front  it — no  spot  is  beyond  its 
reach — no  place  is  too  sacred,  and  no  hovel  is  too 
miserable  for  it  to  enter  there.  On  the  battle- 
field, and  in  clinreh,  while  laughing,  Avhilo  weep- 
ing, while  singing,  while  sigliing,  wo  think  of 
love.  And  you,  my  young  brother,  my  gentle 
sister,  who  have  snch  thoughts  as  these,  cherish 
them  and  keep  them  holy  ;  fence  them  round 
with  noble  efforts  ;  keep  away  the  canker-worm 
of  shame.  In  all  truth  these  thoughts  are  better 
than  great  wealth,  more  profitable  than  fame, 
higher  than  exceeding  great  gifts.  We,  also,  who 
are  farther  on  the  road,  have  known  what  such 
thoughts  are,  and  in  looking  back  now  over  the 
trodden  path  we  see  one  sunny  spot — one  golden 
field  where  no  great  trees,  no  gaudy  flowers  grow, 
but  where  a  holy  peace  has  reigned  ;  where  Am- 
bition found  no  resting-jdace  and  Covetousness 
no  root.  To  have  passed  through  the  meadow 
was  sufficient  reason  for  the  creation  of  a  life. 
Its  pathway  was  very  pleasant,  and  the  scent  of 
its  modest  flowers  reaches  us  now.  Those  who 
have  once  loved  truly  have  not  lived  in  vain,  even 
though  they  pass  quite  away  and  leave  no  trace 
behind. 

Theodore  Tristwas  by  nature  a  remarkably  self- 
contained  man,  and  liis  life  of  late  years  luul 
brought  this  characteristic  to  an  exceptional  pitch. 
He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  thinking,  of  writing, 
of  working  with  a  sublime  disregard  to  the  chance 
of  his    environments.      On    the   battlefleld,   and 


THEODORE   TRIST  IS  AROUSED. 


345 


amidst  the  roiir  of  artillery,  it  had  been  necessary 
for  him  to  write  details  of  a  successful  march 
through  fertile  valleys,  where  the  very  atmosphere 
breatlied  of  peace  alone.  In  the  gorgeous  apart- 
ment of  an  Emperor's  palace,  seated  in  his  rough, 
worn  clothes,  hat  on  liead,  booted,  spurred,  and 
armed,  he  had  penned  such  a  description  of  a 
battle,  fought  two  days  before,  as  will  ever  stand 
out  unrivaled  in  the  annals  of  warfare. 

And  now  in  the  heart  of  gay  Paris,  in  this  neg- 
lected little  room,  he  sat  down  hefore  the  glow- 
ing stove,  while  beneath  his  feet,  like  the  pulse 
of  an  ocean  steamer,  the  mighty  press  throbbed 
continuously,  beating  out  its  news,  speaking  great 
things  and  powerful  words  to  all  mankind.  But 
these  sounds  he  heeded  not.  He  was  thinking  of 
other  things.  For  half  an  hour  he  remained  thus 
absorbed,  and  the  result  of  those  thirty  minutes 
of  thought  went  with  him  through  life.  At  last 
he  rose  and  looked  at  his  Avatch. 

^' It  M'ill  never  do,"  he  said  to  himself,  "to 
funk  it.  I  must  2:>ut  a  stop  to  this.  If  she  makes 
it  so  plain  to  me,  the  inference  is  that  Mrs.  Wylie 
and  Brenda  know  something  about  it,  or  at  the 
least,  suspect.  Whatever  comes  in  the  future,  I 
want  to  save  Brenda  tliat. " 

At  seven  o'clock  that  evening  Theodore  Trist 
presented  himself  at  the  Hotel  Bristol,  and  in- 
qixired  for  the  private  salon  occupied  by  Colonel 
Martyn.  A  small  boy  k-d  the  way  up-stairs  with- 
out a  word,  and  after  a  hurried  tap,  ushered  the 
war-correspondent  into  a  dimly-lighted  apartment. 
A  single  lamp  burnt  upon  a  small  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  casting  a  faint  pink  glow  all 
round,  Mrs.  Huston  rose  from  a  low  chair  near 
the  tab)e^  ^nd  hdd   iiside  a  copy  of  the  Freuc)i 


346  SUSPENSE, 

iievvspaj)er  by  which  Trist's  sole  services  were  re- 
tained. She  wus  alone,  and  tliere  was  iu  her 
graceful  movements  a  scarcely  perceptible  self- 
consciousness,  from  which  Trist  conceived  the 
passing  notion  that,  altliougli  no  mention  had 
been  made  of  it  in  the  note  received  by  him,  he 
Avas  not  likely  to  see  either  Mrs,  Marty n  or  her 
henpecked  iiusband  that  evening. 

'riie  young  widow  was  of  course  di-essed  in  black., 
which,  moreover,  was  relieved  by  no  ornament  ; 
but  although  there  was  crape  on  the  skirt,  that 
unbecoming  material  was  sparingly  worn.  The; 
dress  vv'as  opeucd  slightly  on  the  whitest  throat 
imaginable,  and  the  sleeves  were  loose  below  the 
elbow.  Trist  acknowledged  inwardly  that  this 
woman  Inid  never  looked  so  lovely  as  she  did  at 
that  moment,  with  the  glow  of  the  lamp  on  her 
white  throat  and  hands,  a  faint  conscious  blush 
upon  her  cheek,    her  golden  hair  gleaming  softly. 

lie  advanced  to  meet  her  with  his  impenetrable 
friendliness.  Ah  !  it  is  those  grave  faces  whicli 
we  can  never  read. 

"I  was  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Huston,  **'  that  you 
were  not  in  Paris  ...  or  that  even  if  you  were 
you  Avould  not  come." 

Trist  took  a  chair  which  she  had  indicated  with 
a  wave  of  the  hand. 

'*  I  have  been  hanging  on,"  he  said,  '*  from  day 
to  day.  ..." 

Mrs.  Huston  looked  at  him  with  an  expectant, 
half-inviting  smile  —  a  smile  which  Brenda 
loathed. 

'^  For  no  particular  reason,"  continued  the 
journalist  with  deliberate  stolidity.  "  I  have 
fallen  in  with  an  interesting  lot  of  men,  and  there 
is  nothing  to  call  me  away." 


THEODORE   77^/ST  /S  AROUSED.  547 

The  young  widow's  expression  of  countenance 
altered  from  one  of  coquetry  to  well-simulated 
but  nevertheless  fictitious  interest. 

At  this  moment  a  waiter  appeared  with  the  in- 
formation that  madame  was  served. 

'*  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Martyn  have  unfortunately 
been  called  away  this  evening,  so  you  will  have 
to  content  yourself  with  me/'  observed  Mrs. 
Huston  innocently,  as  she  led  the  way  down  to 
the  luxurious  salle-d-manger. 

"  That,"  answered  Trist  perfunctorily,  *'  will 
be  no  hardship." 

The  tone  in  which  he  said  this  almost  made  it 
a  question  as  to  whether  it  would  not  have  been 
politer  to  have  kept  silent. 

During  dinner  they  talked  easily  and  pleasantly, 
as  behooved  two  persons  knowing  the  world  and 
its  ways.  Occasionally  they  sparred  in  a  subtle 
underhand  way  which  no  listener  could  have  de- 
tected, Mrs.  Huston  attacking,  Trist  parrying  as 
usual. 

"There  are,"  said  the  lady  when  the  waiter 
finally  left  them,  "  cigarettes  up-stairs.  The 
Colonel  always  smokes  and  has  his  coffee  there. 
Will  you  do  the  same  ?  " 

Trist  bowed  silently  as  he  rose  from  his  seat. 

When  they  reached  the  saloon  she  went  to  a 
side-table,  and  returned  presently  with  a  box  of 
cigarettes.  This  she  opened  and  held  out  to  him 
with  both  hands.  There  was  in  her  movements 
a  marvelous  combination  of  girlish  grace  and 
womanly  "  finish,"  and  her  attitude  as  she  stood 
before  him  with  her  white  arms  outstretched, 
her  head  thrown  back,  and  her  glowing  eyes 
seeking  his,  was  perfect  in  its  artistic  concep- 
tion. 


J  48  SUSPENSE. 

''  Please  smoke,'*'  she  said  iu  a  low  voice. 

He  did  not  respoud  at  once,  aud,  seeing  his  hes- 
itation, she  continued  rather  hurried!}'  : 

'■  Surely  you  need  not  stand  on  ceremony  with 
me,Theo  ?  We  .  .  .  we  have  been  friends  all 
our  lives." 

He  smiled  in  a  slow,  orave  wav  as  lie  took  a 
cigarette. 

'•'Yes,"  he  answered,  "we  know  each  other 
pretty  well." 

While  he  struck  a  niatcii  and  lighted  liis  cigar- 
ette she  turned  away  aud  took  a  low  chair,  swing- 
ing the  rustling  skirt  of  lier  dress  aside  with  inimit- 
able grace.  It  happened  that  there  was  a  seat 
close  to  it,  while  no  other  was  within  convenient 
reach.  Trist  remained  standing  before  the  fire- 
place, where  some  logs  burned  fragrantly. 

•'*'  It  is  a  pity,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  in  a 
curious,  half-embarrassed  way,  ''  that  we  are  not 
cousins.  I  almost  .  .  .  wish  we  were.  The 
world  would  have  nothing  to  say  about  our  friend- 
ship then." 

Trist  looked  at  the  burnt  end  of  his  cigarette 
with  careful  criticism. 

"  Has  the  world  anything  to  say  .  .  .  about 
it  now.'^ 

She  shrugged  her  beautiful  shoulders,  and 
arranged  the  brooch  at  her  breast  before  replying 
in  a  low  tone. 

''/don't  care  if  it  has." 

"  What  does  it  say  ?  "  asked  the  journalist,  with 
imperturbable  cruelty. 

By  way  of  reply  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  A 
faint  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke  floated  upward, 
passed  overhead,  and  left  his  strange  incon- 
gruous face  exposed  to  the  full  light  of  the  shaded 


THEODORE   JRIST  IS  AROtJSED,  349 

lamp.  The  beautiful  eyes  searched  his  features, 
and  I  maintain  that  few  men  could  have  looke<^ 
down  at  that  lovely  woman,  could  have  met  those 
pleading  eyes,  could  have  ventured  within  the 
reach  ot  that  subtle  feminine  influence,  unmoved. 
If  Trist  was  uneasy  no  outward  sign  betrayed 
him  ;  no  quiver  of  the  eyelids  ;  no  motion  of  the 
lips.  During  some  moments  there  was  a  tense 
silence,  while  these  two  looked  into  each  other's 
eyes,  probed  each  others  souls.  The  veil  which 
hangs  round  that  treasure  we  all  possess — the  treas- 
ure of  an  unassailable,  illegible,  secret  individual 
ity — seemed  to  fall  away.  Without  words  they 
understood  each  other.  Indeed,  no  words  could 
have  explained  as  that  mutual  searching  glance 
had  done. 

Alice  Huston  knew  then  that  she  had  met  a 
man — the  first  in  all  probability — who  was  totally 
impervious  to  the  baleful  influence  of  the  charms 
she  had  wielded  so  lon^,  without  defining  or  seek- 
ing to  define  them.  She  only  knew  that  a  turn 
of  her  head,  a  glance  of  her  eyes,  a  touch  of  her 
hand,  had  been  sufficient  to  work  her  will  upon 
men.  Without  theorizing  upon  sexual  influence 
she  had  used  it  unscrupulously,  as  most  women 
do,  and  hitherto  it  had  never  failed.  She  was 
aware  that  she  could  lead  men  who  were  beyond  the 
reacli  of  the  strongest  purpose  possessed  by  their 
own  sex  without  any  exercise  of  her  will  at  all.  Her 
strength  lay  in  physical,  not  in  moral,  influence. 
If  her  beauty  failed  she  had  nothing  to  support 
her. 

And  now  she  sat  with  interlocked  and  writhing 
fingers,  gazing  upward  at  this  man,  awaiting  his 
will.  Her  agonized  eyes  quailed  beneath  his 
gentle  glance.      It  is  a  picture  I  recommend  to 


35©  SUSPENSE. 

the  notice  of  such  plain  and  unwomanly  females 
as  love  to  talk  of  woman's  rights  and  woman's 
superior  nature,  which  awaits  but  the  opportunity 
of  asserting  itself.  Ah,  my  sisters  ! — you,  the 
womanly  women  ! — believe  me,  your  greatest 
earthly  happiness  lies  in  love  as  it  is  understood 
now  and  has  been  understood  since  the  Lion  lay 
down  with  the  Lamb  in  that  old  Garden  which  we 
catch  glimpses  of  still  over  a  fence  when  the  love- 
light  is  in  our  eyes. 

Trist  broke  the  silence  at  last,  and  his  voice 
was  hollow,  with  a  singular  **  far-off  "  sound,  like 
the  voice  of  a  man  speaking  in  great  pain,  with 
an  effort. 

"  If  the  world  has  made  a  mistake,  Alice,"  he 
said  slowly  and  impressively,  "  I  hope  to  God  you 
have  not !  " 

She  made  no  answer.  The  power  of  speech 
seemed  to  have  left  her  beautiful  lips,  which  were 
livid  and  dry.  She  rubbed  her  hands  together, 
p:ilin  to  palm,  in  a  horribly  mechanical  manner, 
which  was  almost  inhuman  in  its  dumb  despair. 
Before  her  eyes  a  veil — dull,  neutral-tinted,  im- 
penetrable— seemed  to  rise,  and  her  vision  failed. 
The  tendons  of  iier  lovely  throat  were  tense,  like 
wires,  beneath  the  milky  skin. 

At  length  her  senses  returned,  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  rhytlimically,  and  she  looked  round  the 
room  in  a  dazed,  stupid  way  like  one  who  has 
fallen  from  a  lieight. 

She  saw  it  all  as  in  a  dream.  The  convention- 
al fui-nitiire  of  mahogany  and  deep  red  velvet,  the 
variegated  table-cloth,  the  hideous  gilt  clock  upon 
the  mantel[)iece.  Then  she  looked  into  the  square, 
open  fircjihice,  where  some  logs  of  wood  smoldered 
warmly.     Upon  one  of  these,  unaffected  by  the 


A  LESSON.  351 

heat,  lay  the  half-barut  cigtirette  which  Theo 
Trist  hud  thrown  away  before  speaking. 

Seeing  it,  she  looked  round  tiie  room  again  with 
drawn  and  hopeless  eyes.  Trist  was  not  there. 
He  had  left  her.  There  was  a  simple  straightfor- 
wardness of  action  about  this  man  which  at  times 
verged  upon  brutality. 

Slowly  Alice  Huston  rose  from  her  cliair.  For 
some  moments  she  stood  motionless,  and  tlien  she 
went  to  the  fireplace,  where  she  remained  staring 
at  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror,  which  was 
only  partially  hidden  by  the  glass-shade  covering 
the  hideous  clock. 

'' And,^'  she  muttered  brokenly,  as  she  turned 
away  with  clenched  fists,  *'  I  used  to  think  that  we 
were  not  punished  upon  earth.  I  wonder  how 
long  .  .  .  how  long  ...  I  shall  be  able  to  stand 
this!'' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A   LESSON". 

In"  Suffolk  Mansions  the  absence  of  Alice  Hus- 
ton left  a  less  perceptible  vacuum  than  that  lady 
would  have  imagined.  Mrs.  Wylie  was  intensely 
relieved  that  the  young  widow  had,  so  to  speak, 
struck  out  a  line  of  her  own — wherever  that  line 
might  tend  to  lead  lier.  Brenda  was  less  philo- 
sophical. She  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  her 
sister's  presence  had  been  a  pleasure,  and,  like  all 
ileasures  withdrawn,  had  left  a  blank  behind  it. 
at  the  pretense  was  at  its  best  a  sorry  one.      It 


t 


352 


SUSPENSE. 


is  a  lamcntablo  fact  that  propinquity  is  the  most 
powerful  factor  in  liiuuaii  loves,  hatreds,  and 
friendships.  The  best  of  friends,  the  most  affec- 
tionate sisters,  cannot  live  apart  for  a  few  ye;irs 
without  fostering  the  growth  of  an  intangible, 
silent  barrier  wliich  forces  its  way  up  between 
them,  and  which  we  lightly  call  a  lack  of  mutual 
interest.     What  is  love  but   ''  mutual    interest  ? '' 

Breuda,  who  was  herself  the  soul  of  loyalty, 
stood  mentally  aghast  over  the  ruins  of  her  great 
unselfish  love.  She  imagined  it  dead,  but  this 
was  not  the  case.  In  a  heart  like  that  of  Brenda 
Gilholme,  love  never  dies.  It  is  only  in  our 
hearts,  my  brothers,  and  in  those  of  a  very  few 
women  that  this  takes  place.  The  sisterly  love 
was  living  still,  but  it  was  little  else  than  the  mere 
tie  of  blood  or  the  result  of  a  few  mutual  friendships 
in  the  past.  The  two  women  had  drifted  apart 
upon  the  broad  waters  of  life. 

In  the  meantime  IVlrs.  "Wyiie  was  watching 
events.  This  good  lady  was  (is  still,  heaven  bless 
her  I)  an  optimist.  She  is  one  of  those  brave  per- 
sons who  really  iu  their  hearts  believe  that  human 
life  is  worth  living  for  its  own  sake.  She  actually 
had  the  elTrontery  to  maintain  that  happiness  is 
attainable.  There  are  some  women  like  this  in 
the  world.  They  are  not  what  is  called  intellec- 
tual— they  write  no  books,  speak  no  speeches,  and 
propound  no  theories — but  ...  1  would  to  God 
there  were  more  of  them  I 

The  daily  life  of  these  two  ladies  soon  assumed 
its  normal  routine.  Brt-nda  studied  political 
economy,  Shakespeare,  and  the  latest  biography 
by  turns  in  her  unproductive,  resultless  way.  Her 
mind  craved  for  food  and  refused  nothing  ;  while, 
or),  tbp  other  haijd,  it  passessed  no  decide4  tastes, 


A  LESSON.  353 

Before  Jaiinary  had  rim  out  its  days  she  heard 
from  Alice,  who  had  moved  southward  to  Monte 
Carlo  with  her  friends  the  Martyns, 

One  afternoon  in  February  Brenda  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  in  Suffolk  Mansions 
when  a  visitor  arrived.  It  was  no  other  than 
William  Hicks.  His  entree  was  executed  with  the 
usual  faultless  grace  and  savoir-faire.  He  carried 
a  soft  hat,  for  it  was  foggy,  and  his  long  black 
cloak  was  thrown  carelessly  back  to  the  full  ad- 
vantage of  a  broad  astrakhan  collar. 

This  was  the  first  visit  he  had  paid  since  the 
death  of  Captain  Huston  ;  consequently  ho  and 
Brenda  had  not  met  since  the  ball  to  wliieh  Trist 
had  conceived  the  bold  idea  of  bringing  his 
enemy.  With  this  fact  in  view  W^illiam  Hicks 
smiled  in  a  sympathetic  way  as  he  advanced  witli 
outstretched  hand,  but  said  no  word.  They 
shook  hands  gravely,  and  Brenda  resumed  her 
seat. 

*'  Mrs.  Wylie  has  just  gone  to  your  mother's," 
she  said,  in  some  surprise. 

Hicks  laid  aside  his  hat,  and  slowly  drew  off 
his  slate-colored  gloves.  The  action  was  jnst  a 
trifle  stagy.  He  might  well  have  been  the  hereof 
a  play  about  to  begin  a  ditRcult  scene. 

**  Yes,"  he  answered  meaningly,   '' I  know." 

Brenda  turned  her  small,  proud  head,  and 
looked  at  him  in  silence.  Her  attitude  was  hardly 
one  of  surprise,  and  yet  it  betrayed  her  knowledge 
of  his  possible  meaning.  Altogether  it  waa 
scarcely  sympathetic. 

Hicks  allowed  her  a  few  moments  in  which  to 
make  some  sort  of  reply  or  inquiry  as  to  his  mean- 
ing, but  she  failed  to  take  the  cue. 

"  I  found   out    bv    accident,"    h^   continned, 

^3 


354 


SUSPENSE. 


*'  tliat  Mrs.  Wjlie  was  np-stairs  with  my  mother, 
and  had  just  arrived.  It  struck  me  that  you 
mip^ht  be  alone  here — the  opportunity  was  one 
uhich  I  have  waited  for — so  I  came." 

Brcnda's  eyes  were  much  steadier  than  his,  and 
ho  was  forced  to  turn  his  gaze  elsev.-here. 

''It  was  very  good  of  you, "  sho  said  with  strange 
eimplieity,  "  to  think  of  my  solitude." 

Ilicks  caressed  his  matchless  mustache  com- 
phicently,  althougli  he  was  in  reality  not  quite  at 
ease. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  yon,"  ho  said,  in  a  tone 
which  deprecated  the  thought  of  a  jturely  unselfish 
motive  in  the  meritorious  action. 

"About  .  .  .  what  ?"  inquired  the  girl  without 
enthusiasm. 

**  About  myself — a  dull  topic,  I  am  afraid." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  William  Hicks  did  not 
expect  an  indignant  denial  ;  for  such  was  not 
forthcoming.  Brenda  leant  back  in  her  chair  in 
the  manner  of  one  composing  herself  to  the  con- 
sideration of  a  long  and,  probably  a  dull  story. 
Her  eyebrows  were  slightly  raised,  but  she  be- 
trayed no  signs  of  agitation  or  suspense. 

Hicks  slipped  his  cloak  from  his  shoulders  and 
rose.  He  stood  on  the  hearthrug  before  her, 
looking  down  upon  her  as  she  reclined  gracefully 
in  the  deep  chair. 

**  Brenda,"  he  said,  in  a  carefully  modulated 
tone,  "  I  am  only  a  poor  painter — t — hat  is  to 
say,  I  am  not  making  much  money  out  of  art.  I 
am,  however,  making  a  name  which  will  no  doubt 
be  valuable  some  day.  In  the  meantime  I  am 
fortunately  in  a  position  to  disregard  the  baser 
uses  of  art,  and  to  seek  her  only  for  lierself.  I 
have  a  certain  position  already,  and  I  am  content 


A  LESSON.  355 

eveu  with  it.  I  intend  to  do  better — to  make  a 
greater  name.  And  in  that  aim — you  can  help 
me  ! " 

He  was  quite  sincere,  but  the  habit  of  posing 
was  so  strong  upon  him  that  the  magnificence  of 
his  offer  perhaps  lost  a  little  weight  by  the  sense 
of  study,  of  forethought,  of  preparation,  as  it 
were,  in  the  manner  of  delivering  it. 

There  was  a  singular  suggestion  of  Theodore 
Trist's  school  of  life  in  the  manner  in  which 
Brenda  looked  up  now  and  spoke — a  deliberate 
ignorance,  almost  of  the  smoother  social  methods. 

**  Are  you,"  she  inquired,  "asking  me  to  be 
your  wife  ?  " 

Hicks  stared  at  her  vacantly.  He  was  wonder- 
ing what  sequence  of  thought  brought  Theodore 
Trist  into  his  mind  at  that  moment.  The  ques- 
tion remained  unanswered  for  some  time. 

**'  Yes,"  he  said  at  length  weakly. 

In  all  his  private  rehearsals  of  this  scene,  he 
had  never  conceived  the  possibility  of  having  to 
answer  such  a  query.  It  was  hard  to  do  with 
dignity  ;  and  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  in  his 
life  he  was  not  quite  content  with  his  own  method. 
After  a  momentary  silence  he  recovered  his  usual 
aplomb.  Brenda  was,  he  argued,  after  all  but  a 
girl,  and  all  girls  are  alike.  Flattery  reaches  them 
every  one. 

'•  I  have,"  he  said  eagerly,  giving  her  no  op- 
portunity of  interrnptiiig  him,  "  known  many 
people — moved  in  many  circles.  I  am  not  an  in- 
experienced schoolboy,  and  therefore  my  convic- 
tion should  carry  some  weight  with  it.  I  am 
certain,  Brenda,  that  I  could  find  no  more  suit- 
able wife  if  I  searched  all  the  world  over.  Your 
influence  upon  my  art  cannot  fail  to  be  beneficial 


^56  SC/SPENS^. 

— yoa  aro  eminently  fitted  to  take  a  high  place  iu 
the  social  world  ;  such  a  place  as  my  wife  will 
liud  awaiting  her.  I  have  made  no  secret  of  my 
financial  position  ;  and  as  to  my  place  iu  the 
art  world  of  this  century,  you  know  as  much  as 
I  could  tell  you." 

He  paused  witli  a  graceful  wave  of  his  white 
hand,  and  intimated  his  readiness  to  receive  her 
answer.  He  even  moved  a  step  nearer  to  her,  iu 
order  that  he  might  with  grace  lean  over  her 
chair  and  take  her  hand  when  the  proper  mo- 
ment arrived. 

There  was  no  emotion  on  either  side.  Neither 
forgot  for  a  second  that  they  were  children  of  a 
self-suppressing  generation,  which  considers  all 
outward  warmth  of  joy  or  sorrow  to  be  "  bad 
form."  William  Hicks  had  delivered  his  words 
with  faultless  intonation — perfect  pitch — allowing 
himself  ('as  an  artist)  a  graceful  gesture  here  and 
there.     Brenda  took  her  cue  from  him. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  make  me  such  an 
advantageous  offer,"  she  said,  in  an  even  and 
gentle  voice,  in  which  no  ring  of  sarcasm  could 
luive  been  detected  by  much  finer  ears  than  those 
of  William  Hicks,  whose  organs  were  partially 
paralyzed  by  self-conceit;  ''but  I  am  afraid  I 
must  refuse." 

The  artist  was  too  niucli  sur))rised  to  say  any- 
thing at  all.  A  refusal — to  him  !  One  of  the 
most  popular  men  in  London.  A  great,  though 
uiuippr(!ciated  painter- -a  perfect  dancer — asocial 
lion.  He  had  been  run  after,  I  admit  that,  for 
most  men  are  who  take  the  trouble  to  be  univer- 
sally and  impartially  polite  ;  but  he  had  never 
taken  the  trouble  of  Investigating  the  desirability 
or  otherwise  of  those  who  ran  after  him.     He  had 


A  LESSON.  357 

hot  quite  realized  that  there  was  not  a  woman 
among  them  wortliy  to  button  Brenda's  glove, 

"  Will  you  not,"  he  atammerod,  with  blanched 
face,  '*  reconsider  your  .   .   .   determination  ?  " 

The  girl  shook  her  head  gravely. 

''  No  ! ''  she  replied.  '"  There  is  not  the  slight- 
est chance  of  my  over  doing  that,  and  I  am  very, 
very  sorry  if  from  anything  I  have  said  or  done  you 
have  been  led  to  believe  that  ray  answer  could 
possibly  have  been  otherwise." 

To  this  Hicks  made  no  direct  reply.  He  could 
not  with  truth  have  accused  her  of  the  conduct 
she  suggested.  The  fact  merely  was  that  he  had 
not  excepted  Brenda  from  the  rest  of  womankind, 
and  it  had  always  been  his  honest  conviction  that 
he  had  only  to  ask  any  woman  in  the  world  to  be 
his  wife  to  make  that  woman  the  happiest  of  her 
sex  as  well  as  the  proudest.  There  is  nothing 
extraordinary  in  this  mild  self-deception.  We  all 
practise  it  with  marvelous  success.  It  is  a  fallacy 
I  myself  cherished  for  many  years,  until  the  mo- 
ment came  (a  happy  moment  for  my  near  relatives, 
no  doubt  I)  when  I  made  the  lamentable  discovery 
that  I  was  not  in  such  demand  after  all. 

Hicks  had  never  been  refused  before,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  he  had  never  hitherto  thought 
fit  to  place  his  heart  at  any  maiden's  feet. 

'^But  why/'  he  pleaded,  "will  you  not  marry 
me  ?  " 

Her  answer  was  ready. 

*' Because  I  do  not  love  you." 

*'  But  that  will  come,"  he  murmured.  '^  I  "will 
teach  you  to  love  me  1 " 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face  and  looked 
calmly  at  him.  Even  in  such  a  moment  as  this 
the  habit    of    studying    and    dissecting    human 


2^8  SUSPENSE. 

minds  was  not  laid  aside.  It  seemed  as  if  she 
were  pondering  over  his  words,  not  in  connection 
with  herself  at  all,  but  in  a  general  sense.  She 
was  wondering,  no  doubt,  if  there  were  women 
who  could  be  coerced  into  loving  this  man.  As 
for  herself  she  had  no  doubts  whatever.  William 
Hicks  possessed  absolutely  no  influence  over  her, 
but  she  felt  at  that  moment  as  if  it  were  possible 
that  a  man  could  make  her  love  him  even  against 
lier  will  if  he  were  possessed  of  the  necessary 
strength  of  purpose.  In  a  vague,  indefinite  way 
she  was  realizing  that  woman  is  weaker  than  man 
— is,  in  fact,  a  weaker  man,  with  smaller  capabili- 
ties of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  love,  hatred,  devotion, 
or  remorse  ;  and,  in  a  way,  William  Hicks  profited 
by  this  thought.  She  respected  him — not  in- 
dividually, but  generally — because  he  Avas  a  man, 
and  because  she  felt  that  some  woman  could  look 
up  to  him  and  admire  him  for  his  mere  manhood, 
if  she  herself  was  unable  to  do  so  because  he  fell 
short  of  her  standiird. 

In  the  meantime  Hicks  had  realized  the  empti- 
ness of  his  boast.  From  her  calm  glance  he  had 
read  that  her  will  was  stronger  than  his  own — 
that  she  did  not  lovo  him,  and  never  would.  We, 
my  brothers,  who  have  })assed  through  the  mill 
can  sympathize  with  this  young  fellow,  despite 
his  follies,  his  vanity,  his  conceit,  his  affectation  ; 
for  I  verily  believe  thnt  Brenda  cured  him  of 
them  all  in  those  few  moments.  Most  of  us 
can,  I  think,  look  back  to  the  time  when  we  were 
severally  foolish,  vain,  conceited,  and  affected — 
many  of  us  have  been  cured  by  tlie  glance  of  some 
girl's  eyes. 

The  artist  dropped  his  argument  at  once.  He 
turned  away  and   walked   to    the  window,  where 


A  LESSOX.  359 

he  stood  with  his  back  toward  her,  looking  out  into 
the  dismal  misty  twilight.  Thus  the  girl  allowed 
him  to  stand  for  some  time,  and  then  she  rose  and 
went  to  his  side. 

"Willy/'  she  said,  "  1  am  very,  very  sorry  !  " 

She  was  beginning  to  think  now  that  he  really 
loved  her  in  his  way,  although  by  some  curious 
oversight  he  had  omitted  to  mention  the  fact. 

He  turned  his  head  in  her  direction,  and  his 
hand  caressed  his  mustache  with  its  habitual 
grace. 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  it,"  he  murmured. 
"  Of  course  .  .  .  it  is  a  bitter  disappointment  to 
me.     I  have  been  mistaken." 

She  made  no  attempt  to  alleviate  his  evi- 
dent melancholy — expressed  no  regret  that  he 
should  have  been  mistaken.  The  time  for  sym- 
pathy was  past,  and  she  allowed  him  to  fight  out 
his  bitter  fight  alone.  Presently  he  went  toward 
the  chair  where  he  had  thrown  his  cloak  and  hat. 
These  he  took  up,  and  returned  to  her  with  his 
hand  outsti*etched. 

'*Good-by,  Brenda  !"  he  said,  for  once  with- 
out afllectation. 

"Good-by,"  she  ruj.iied  oiuiply,  and  long  after 
William  Hicks  had  left  the  room  she  stood  there 
with  her  white  haiids  hanging  down  at  either  side 
like  some  delicate  flower  resting  on  the  soft  black 
material  in  which  she  was  clad. 


36o  SUSPENSS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

hicks'  secret. 

"When  Mrs.  Wylie  returned  home  about  five 
o'clock  she  found  the  drawing-room  still  in  dark- 
ness. Tlie  maid  had  offered  to  light  the  gas,  but 
Breuda  told  her  to  leave  it.  In  the  pleasant  glow 
of  the  firelight  the  widow  found  her  young  friend 
sitting  in  her  favorite  chair  with  interlocked  fin- 
gers in  her  lap. 

Mrs.  Wylie  closed  the  door  before  she  spoke. 

''This  is  bad,"  she  said. 

"  What  is  bad  ?  " 

"  I  believe,"  replied  Mrs.  Wylie  in  her  semi- 
serious,  semi-cheerful  way,  "that  I  have  warned 
you  already  against  the  evil  practise  of  sitting 
staring  into  the  fire." 

Brenda  laughed  softly,  and  met  the  kind  gaze 
of  the  gray  eyes  that  were  searching  her  face. 

*'It  has  always  seemed  to  me,"  she  said,  *'  that 
your  philosophy  is  wanting  in  courage.  It  is  the 
philosophy  of  a  moral  coward.  It  is  braver  and 
better  to  think  out  all  thoughts — good  and  bad, 
sad  and  gay — as  they  come." 

Mrs.  AVylie  loosened  her  bonnet-strings,  un- 
hooked her  sealskin  jacket,  and  sat  down. 

'* No,"  she  answered  argumentatively.  "It  is 
not  the  creed  of  a  coward,  no  more  tban  it  is  cow- 
ardly to  avoid  temptation.  A  practical  man, 
however  brave  he  may  be,  will  do   well  to  avoid 


UlCkS'  SBC  RET.  361 

temptation.      A     sensible     woman     will     avoid 
thought." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  replied  the  girl  diplomati- 
cally, ''  of  tea  !  " 

From  the  expression  of  the  widow's  face  it 
would  seem  that  she  accepted  this  statement  with 
reservations.     She  made,  however,  no  remark. 

After  a  little  pause  she  looked  across  to  Brenda 
in  a  speculative  way,  and  no  doubt  appreciated 
the  grace  and  beauty  of  that  fire-lit  picture. 

"  Willie  Hicks,"  she  said,  *'  has  been  here  ?" 

"Yes.  How  did  you  know  ?" inquired  Brenda 
rather  sharply. 

"  Emma  told  me." 

"Ah!" 

"  Brenda,"  said  the  widow  in  a  softer  tone, 
after  a  pause  of  some  duration. 

"  Yes  ! " 

"  I  have  constructed  a  little  fable  for  myself,  in 
some  part  founded  upon  fact.  Would  you  like  to 
hear  it?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl  with  a  slightly  exag- 
gerated moue  of  indifference  ;  "  tell  me." 

"Shortly  after  I  arrived  at  the  Hicks',  Willie 
went  out.  I  happened  to  know  this,  because  I 
was  near  the  window  in  the  drawing-room  and 
saw  him.  I  also  noticed  that  his  gait  was  slightly 
furtive.  I  thought,  '  That  young  man  does  not 
want  me  to  know  that  he  has  gone  out.'  On  my 
way  home  I  met  him  going  in  the  contrary  direc- 
tion. He  avoided  seeing  me,  and  did  it  remark- 
ably well,  as  might  have  been  expected.  But 
there  was  a  change  in  his  gait,  and  even  in  hie 
attiude.  The  strange  thought  came  into  my 
head  that  he  had  been  here  to  see  you.  Then  1 
began  to  wonder  what'  had  caused  the  change  I 


362  SUSPENSE. 

lietected.  It  seemed  as  if  William  Hioks  bad 
pjKsed  through  some  experience — had  received  a 
lesson.  The  fine  flight  of  my  imagination  was 
this :  that  you,  Brenda,  had  given  him  tiiat 
lesson." 

Mrs.  Wylie  ceased  sj)eaking  and  leant  back 
comfortably.  Brenda  was  sitting  forward  nuw 
with  her  two  hands  clasped  around  her  knees. 
She  was  looking  toward  her  comjjanion,  and  her 
eyes  glowed  in  the  ruddy  light." 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "we  should  respect  his 
secret.  Naturally  he  would  prefer  that  we  were 
silent." 

*'  We  are  neither  of  us  talkative.  .  .  .  Then 
.  .  .  then  my  fable  was  true  ? " 

Brenda  nodded  her  head. 

''  I  am  glad,"  murmured  the  widow  after  a 
short  silence,  "  that  he  has  brought  matters  to  an 
understanding  at  last.  It  is  probable  that  he  will 
turn  out  a  fine  fellow  when  he  has  found  his  level. 
He  is  finding  it  now.  His  walk  was  different  as 
he  retiirned  home.  All  young  men  are  objection- 
able until  they  have  failed  signally  in  something 
or  other.  Then  they  begin  to  settle  down  into 
manhood." 

'*  He  misrepresents  himself,"  said  Brenda 
gently.  "  When  he  lays  aside  his  artistic  affecta- 
tion he  is  very  nice." 

"  But,"  added  Mrs.  AVylie  with  conviction,  "he 
is  not  half  good  enough  for  you." 

Brenda  smiled  a  little  wistfully  and  rose  to  pre- 
side at  the  tea-tray,  which  the  maid  brought  in  at 
ihat  moment. 

And  so  William  Hicks  was  tacitly  laid  aside. 
People  who  live  together — husband  and  wife, 
brother    and    sister,    woman   and    woman — soon 


tJlCKS'  SECRET.  363 

learn  the  art  of  deferring  a  subject  which  can  gain 
nothing  by  discussion.  There  are  perforce  many 
such  topics  in  our  daily  life — subjects  which  are 
best  ignored,  explanations  which  are  best  withlield, 
details  best  suppressed. 

During  their  simple  tea  and  the  evening  that 
followed  there  were  other  things  to  talk  of,  and 
it  was  only  after  dinner,  when  they  were  left 
alone  with  their  work  and  their  books,  that  Mrs, 
Wylie  made  reference  to  the  afternoon's  proceed- 
ings. 

"  On  my  way  back  from  the  Hicks',"  she  said 
conversationally,  "I  met  Sir  Edward." 

"  Ah  !     Indeed  !    .  .  .  " 

Brenda  looked  up  from  the  heavy  volume  on 
her  lap  and  waited  with  some  interest.  Mrs. 
Wylie  paused  some  time  before  continuing.  She 
leant  to  one  side  and  took  up  a  large  work-basket, 
in  which  she  searched  busily  for  something. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured  at  length,  with  her  face 
literally  in  the  basket;  "and  .  ,  .  Theo  is  in 
St.  Petersburg  !  " 

*'  St.  Petersburg  ! ''  repeated  Brenda  slowly. 
*'  In  the  winter.     I  rather  envy  him  ! " 

"I  do  not  imagine,"  said  Mrs.  W3'lie,  still  oc- 
cupied with  the  disheveled  contents  of  her  work- 
basket,  "  that  he  is  there  on  pleasure." 

Brenda  laughed  lightly. 

**  Theo,"  she  observed  in  a  casual  way,  "  is 
not  much  given  to  pleasure  in  an  undiluted 
state. " 

"  I  like  a  man  who  takes  life  and  his  life's  work 
seriously." 

"  So  do  I,"  assented  Brenda  indiiTerently. 

She  knew  that  Mrs.  Wylie  was  studying  her  face 
with  kindly  keenness,    and  so   she  smiled  in  a 


364  SUSPENSE. 

friendly  way  at  the  fire,  which  seemed  to  dance 
and  laugh  in  reply. 

"  Is  it  generally  known  that  he  is  in  St.  Peters- 
burg ?  "  she  asived  with  some  interest. 

"  Oh,  no  I  Sir  Edward  told  me  in  confidence. 
He  says  that  it  does  not  matter  much,  but  that  he 
and  Theo  would  prefer  it  not  being  talked  about." 

"  Why  has  he  gone  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

Mrs.  Wylie  laid  aside  the  basket  and  looked 
across  at  her  companion  with  a  curious,  baffled 
smile. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "1  had  not 
the  ...   the  ...  '' 

''Cheek?" 

"  Cheek  to  ask." 

Brenda  returned  to  her  book. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  presently,  as  she  turned 
a  page,  "  that  it  means  war." 

The  widow  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

•'We  must  not  get  into  the  habit,"  she  sug- 
gested, **of  taking  it  for  granted  that  every 
action  of  Theo's  means  that." 

'*  He  lives  for  war,"  said  the  girl  wearily  as  she 
bent  over  her  book  with  decision, 

Mrs.  Wylie  worked  on  in  silence.  She  had  no 
desire  to  press  the  subject,  and  Brenda's  state- 
ment was  undeniable. 

They  now  returned  to  their  respective  occupa- 
tions, but  Brenda  knew  that  at  times  her  com- 
panion's eyes  wandered  from  the  work  toward  her 
own  face.  Mrs.  Wylie  Mas  evidently  thinking 
actively — not  passively,  as  was  her  wont.  The 
result  was  not  long  in  forthcoming. 

"My  dear,"  she  said  energetically,  '^  I  have 
been  thinking.     Let  us  go  down  to  Wyl's  Hall." 

Brenda  pondered  for  a  few  seconds  before  re- 


HICKS'  SECRET.  36^ 

plying.     It  was  the  first  time  that  there  had  been 
anv  mention  of  the  old  Suffolk  house  since  its 
master's   sudden  death.      Mrs.   Wylie  had  never 
crossed  the   threshold  of  this,  the  birthplace  of 
many  Wylies   (all   good   sailors   and  true   men), 
since  she  returned  in  the   Hermione    to  Wyven- 
■wich  a  childless  widow.     All  this  Brenda  knew, 
and   consequently   attached   some  importance  to 
the  suggestion.     Daring  the  last  six  months  they 
had  lived  on  in  an  unsettled  way  from  day  to  day. 
Both  had,  perhaps,  been  a  little  restless.     There 
was  a  want  of  homeliness  about  the  chambers  in 
Suffolk  Mansions  ;  not  so  much,   perhaps,  in  the 
rooms  themselves   as   in  the  stairs,   the  common 
door  with  its  civil  porter,  and  the  general  air  of 
joint   proprietorship.      What     we    call     vaguely 
"home"  is  nothing  but  a  combination   of  small 
things  with  their  individual   associations.       The 
milkman  with  his  familiar  cry,    the   well-known 
bang  of  the  front  door,  the  creaking  of  the  wood- 
en stairs  ;  such  trifles  as  these  make  up  our  home, 
form  the  frame  in  which  our  life  is  placed,  and 
each  little  change  is  noted.     The   present  writer 
first  realized  the  true  meaning  of  death  by  noting 
the  absence  of  a  small  vase  from  the  nursery  man- 
telpiece.    It  was  a  trifling  little  thing  of  brown 
ware,  shaped  quaintly,  and   round  the  bowl  of   it 
was  a  little  procession  of  Egyptian  figures  follow- 
ing each  other  in  stately  angularity.     One  day  it 
was  broken,  and  I  have  never  forgotten  the  feel- 
ing with  which  I  first  looked   at  the   mantelpiece 
and  sought  in  vain  the  familiar  little  jar. 

To  women  these  small  associations  are,  perhaps, 
dearer  than  they  are  to  us  men.  No  doubt  they 
love  to  be  known  and  greeted  by  their  neighbors, 
rich  or  poor,  while  we  are  often  indifferent.     The 


366  SUSPENSE. 

waTit  of  human  sympathy,  of  hnman  interest  and 
miituiil  aid  is  the  most  prominent  feature  in  town 
life.  Men  live  and  die,  rejoice  and  grieve,  laugh 
and  weep  almost  under  the  same  roof,  and  never 
Bluire  their  laughter  or  mingle  their  tears.  Faces 
may  grow  familiar,  but  heai'ts  remain  estranged, 
because  perforce  each  man  must  fight  for  himself 
on  the  pavement,  and  there  is  no  time  to  turn 
aside  and  lend  a  helping  hand. 

Brenda  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  possibility  that 
Mrs.  Wylie  might  be  longing  for  the  familiar 
faces  and  pleasant  voices  of  the  humble  dwellers 
in  Wyvenwicli  ;  but  the  proposal  to  return  to 
Wyl's  Hall  was  apparently  unpremeditated,  and 
therefore  the  girl  doubted  its  sincerity. 

''Not  on  my  account?''  she  inquired  doubt- 
fully, without  looking  up. 

"  IS"o.  On  my  own.  I  am  longing  for  the  old 
place,  Brenda.  This  fog  and  gloom  makes  one 
think  of  the  brightness  of  Wyvenwich  and  the  sea 
which  is  always  lovely  in  a  frost.  Let  us  go  at 
once — to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  The  winter  is 
by  no  means  over  yet,  and  London  is  detestable. 
Even  if  we  are  snowed  up  at  Wyl's  Hall,  it  does 
not  matter  much,  for  it  is  always  bright  and 
cheery  despite  its  loneliness.  We  will  take  plenty 
of  books  and  work." 

The  girl  made  no  further  demur,  and  presently 
caught  the  infection  of  her  companion's  clieerful 
enthusiasm.  j\Irs.  Wvlie  possessed  the  pleasant 
art  of  making  life  a  comfortable  thing  under  most 
circumstances,  and  for  such  as  her  a  sudden  move 
has  no  fears.  While  Trist  adapted  himself  to  cir- 
cumstances Mrs.  Wylie  seemed  to  adapt  circum- 
Rtances  to  herself,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  more 
difficult  art. 


PryVS  HALL.  367 

The  good  lady  seemed  somewhat  relieved  when 
the  move  was  finally  decided  upon  and  arranged  ; 
nevertheless,  there  was  a  look  of  anxiety  on  her 
round  face  wlieu  she  sought  her  room  that  night. 

"  I  wish,"  slie  observed  to  her  own  reflection  in 
the  looking-glass,  ''tliat  I  knew  what  to  do.  I 
must  be  a  terrible  coward.  It  would  be  so  very 
easy  to  ask  Brenda  outright  .  .  .  though  .  .  . 
I  know  what  the  answer  would  bo  .  ,  .  poor  child  ! 
And  I  might  just  as  well  have  spoken  out  boldly 
when  I  went  to  see  him  that  night.  It  is  a  diffi- 
cult predicament,  because — they  are  both  so 
strong  I " 


CHAPTER  IX. 


wyl's  hall. 


It  does  not  fall  to  the  lot  of  many  travelers  by 
sea  to  plow  through  the  yellow  broken  waters  of 
the  German  Ocean  where  the  coast  of  Suffolk  lies 
low  and  fertile.  Thus  it  happens  that  these  shores 
are  little  visited,  and  never  overrun  by  the  cheap 
tourists.  Upon  tiiis  bleak,  shingly  shore  there 
ju-e  little  villages  and  small  ancient  towns  quite 
unknown  to  the  August  holiday-seeker,  who  pre- 
fers crowding  down  to  the  south  coast.  The 
main-line  of  the  Great  Eastern  Railway  runs  its 
northward  course  far  inland,  and  sends  out  at  in- 
tervals a  small  feeler,  often  a  single  line  traversed 
hut  once  or  twice  a  day.  Between  these  sleepy 
lines  there  are  tracts  of  country  where  the  roads 
are  mere  beds  of  sajid  and  shingle,  quite  unfit  for 


3  68  SUSPJSNSE. 

polite  traffic — broad  marslies  iutersoeted  by 
dluices  and  waterways  too  broad  to  jump,  too  uu- 
important  to  bridge,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  a 
great  hopeless  plain  of  unfathomable  shingle. 
Five  miles  across  this  country  are  equal  to  twelve 
upon  a  inoderatoly  good  road.  Driving  is  impos- 
sible, riding  impracticable,  and  walking  unpleas- 
ant. There  is,  indeed,  a  tiny  coastguard  path 
near  the  sea,  but  this  is  often  lost  amidst  the 
shingle  ;  and  even  when  the  land  rises  to  thirty 
feet,  in  soft,  sandy  cliff,  the  walking  is  but  doubt- 
ful. 

The  glory  of  this  coast  has  departed  ;  many  of 
its  villages  and  towns — once  important — have  like- 
wise gone  .  .  .  into  the  sea.  It  is  dreary,  if  you 
will.  I  admit  that  it  is  dreary,  but  in  its  very 
mournfulness  there  is  a  great  beauty.  I  do  not 
speak  of  the  ruins  of  bygone  monasteries,  of  the 
tall,  square-towered  churches,  of  the  quaint  black 
fishing  hamlets — though  these  are  picturesque 
enough — but  of  the  land  itself.  The  long,  un- 
broken shingle  shore,  where  is  visible,  upon  the 
clean  stones,  a  plank  or  an  old  basket  for  miles 
away — where  the  shore  retreats  in  ridges  to  the 
gi-een  sea-wall  or  bank,  each  ridge  marking  the 
effect  of  some  great  storm.  And  over  the  sea- 
wall, inland,  a  great  wild,  deserted  marsh,  or 
"  mesh,"  as  it  is  called  in  Suffolk,  dotted  here  and 
there  with  black-hulled,  white-sailed  wind-mills, 
duly  set  at  low  tide  by  the  solitary  *'  mesh  ''-man 
to  pump  the  water  into  the  sluices  and  so  into 
the  sea. 

A  golden  sunset  over  these  lands  seen  from  the 
Hea-wall  is  a  wondrous  sight,  for  the  land  gleams 
like  the  heavens.  The  brilliant  westering  light 
gearohes  out  all  still  wat;ers  craftily  hidden  amidst 


H^VL'S  HALL.  369 

tnarsh-grass  and  bulrush,  making  each  pool  and 
slow  stream  reflect  the  gold  of  heaven. 

But  Suffolk  by  the  sea  is  not  all  marsh.  There 
are  high  sand-dunes,  whero  oaks  grow  to  a  won- 
derful stature  and  a  mighty  toughness  ;  where 
clean-limbed  beeches  rustle  melodiously  in  the 
breeze  that  is  never  still  on  the  hottest  autumn 
day  ;  and  where  pines  grow  straight  and  tall  des- 
pite the  salty  breath  of  ocean. 

The  little  town  of  Wyvenwich  lies  upon  tho 
northern  slope  of  such  a  bank  as  this.  Before  it 
spreads  a  bleak  sandy  plain  seven  miles  across, 
while  behind  all  is  fertility  and  leafy  luxuriance. 
To  the  south,  over  tho  hill,  and  past  the  ruins  of 
a  forgotten  monastery,  lies  a  vast  purple  moor, 
which  undulates  inland  until  a  mixed  forest  of 
pine,  oak  and  beech  shuts  out  further  investiga- 
tion. The  red  heather  literally  hangs  over  tho 
sea,  and  a  high  tide,  coupled  with  a  northeasterly 
gale,  beating  against  the  soft  sand-cliffs,  never 
fails  to  reduce  the  breadth  of  Wyvenwich  Moor  a 
yard  or  so.  The  heathland  slopes  gently  down  to 
a  vast  marsh,  in  the  midst  of  which  stands  a  soli- 
tary red-brick  cottage,  the  home  of  the  marsh- 
man.  The  nearest  house  to  it  is  the  Mizzen  Heath 
Coastguard  Station,  set  back  from  the  greedy  sea 
upon  the  height  of  the  moor ;  and  beyond  that, 
surrounded  by  trees  on  all  sides  except  the  front, 
is  Wyl's  Hall. 

The  parish  register  tells  of  Wylies  since  the 
thirteenth  century.  Nothing  of  great  importance, 
perhaps,  but  the  name  is  there,  and  the  possessors 
of  it  appear  to  have  done  their  duty  faithfully  in 
the  state  of  life  in  which  they  were  placed.  Bap- 
tism, marriage,  death — what  could  human  ambi- 
tion require  beyond  that  ?  And  now  the  old  race 
24 


376  SUSPENSJi. 

it  extinct.  A  lonely  widow,  childless,  almost 
kinless,  lives  in  Wyl's  Hull  ;  and  the  last  posses- 
sor of  the  name,  kindly,  honest  Admiral  Wylie, 
lies  in  his  great  solitude  among  the  nameless 
northern  dead,  far  away  in  the  deserted  Korse 
churchyard  upon  the  mountain-side. 

Brenda  Gilholme  found  a  place  for  herself  in 
the  great  human  mill  where  we  are  all  so  many 
"hands"  serving  our  little  looms,  feeding  our  in- 
significant crushes  with  honest  raw  material  which 
goes  away  from  us  and  never  comes  again.  Even 
to  her  analytical,  deep-searching  mind  it  was  clear 
that  Mrs.  Wylie  had  need  of  someone  to  bear  her 
company  in  her  widowhood,  and  so  she  stayed  un- 
questioningly  at  Wyl's  Hall  now  that  Mrs.  Wylie 
had  returned  there. 

Here  she  lived  just  like  an  ordinary  little  coun- 
try nuiiden  who  knew  nothing  of  Greek  verbs  and 
was  profoundly  ignorant  respecting  political  econ- 
omy. She  knew  all  about  the  tides,  and  sym- 
pathized with  old  Godbokl,  the  marsh-man.  when 
the  northeast  winds  blew  against  the  ebbing 
tide,  and  laughed  at  all  his  five  creaking  wind- 
mills. She  learnt  the  names  of  all  the  six 
stalwart  coastguardsmcn  stationed  at  ^lizzen 
lleath,  and  was  deeplv  versed  in  the  smuggling 
lore  of  this  famous  smuggling  country,  where  the 
most  honest  and  law-abiding  man  can  scarcely  look 
at  the  long  deserted  coa:-^t,  tl>e  intersected  nnir^li- 
land,  and  the  silent  sandy  roads,  without  thinking 
of  contraband  wares.  These  coastguardsmcji, 
with  their  civil  tongues  and  readv  v.'avs,  occnr.icd 
an  important  position  in  the  domestic  economy  of 
Wyl's  Hall.  Their  little  Turf  refuge  was  at 'the 
foot  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and  there  a  phasant- 
Bpokeu  man  was  to  be  found  by  night  and  day. 


WYVS  HALL.  371 

Women  are  weak  where  sailors  are  concerned. 
Mrs.  Wylie  set  an  evil  example  wjth  the  London 
newspaper,  and  the  portly  cook  followed  with 
surreptitious  cold  pudding"  when  her  dishes  were 
washed  on  a  warm  evening.  There  was  always 
something  requiring  a  man's  hand  at  Wyl's  Hall, 
and  the  coastguards  had  a  certain  leisure,  during 
which  the  most  somnolent  could  scarcely  sleep. 
No  man  slumbers  quite  peacefully  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  however  actively  employed 
he  may  have  been  during  the  previous  night ;  and, 
indeed,  at  all  times  of  day  or  night  there  was 
usually  one  of  the  six  Mizzen  Heath  guardians 
awake  and  off  duty. 

Into  this  little  world,  shut  off  by  shallow  seas 
in  front,  closed  in  by  vast  moors  behind,  Brenda 
had  quietly  made  her  way  like  some  new  and  gra- 
cious flower  when  the  flowers  of  earth  Avere  still 
frozen  in.  In  it  she  had  found  a  place,  among  its 
denizens  a  welcome.  And  this  was  life.  This 
the  end  and  aim  of  all  existence.  To  do  a  little 
good,  to  bave  a  pleasant  memory  in  a  few  hearts. 
Ah,  my  brothers,  the  marble  slabs  in  every  church 
tell  of  men's  virtues  and  men's  dee<ls  {  lauding 
them  and  praising  them  beyond  their  value  ! 
"And  of  Mary,  his  wife,  who  died  at  the  age  of 
seventy-six."  A  short  record,  a  simple  statement. 
We  do  not  hear  of  her  virtues  and  her  deeds,  and 
only  a  few  of  us  vaguely  surmise  that  she  may  have 
had  a  hand  in  the  shaping  of  that  wonderful  vessel, 
her  lord  and  master,  whose  good  name  will  go  down 
to  posterity — an  example  to  men  unborn.  Could 
the  life  of  "Mary,  his  wife,"  be  dissected,  I 
think  it  would  prove  to  be  a  cleaner  record. 

And  so  Brenda,  in  her  way,  was  doing  her  share 
of  unrecorded  good,  working  out  her  small  exist- 


372  SaSFSNSE. 

ence  in  a  daily  round  of  trivial  self-sacrifices,  self- 
suppressions,  self-abnegations,  as  the  majority  of 
women  are  doing  round  us  now.  In  a  manner  she 
was  happy,  for  youth  itself  is  a  happiness,  because 
it  is  a  deceptive  glamour  of  anticipation — anticipa- 
tion which,  thank  God  !  we  can  never  learn  to  recog- 
nize as  destined  to  certain  disappointment.  At 
times  she  vaguely  questioned  the  benefit  accruing 
from  the  possession  of  an  exceptional  education, 
but  fort  unatelv  she  was  unaware  that  she  was  en- 
dowed  with  an  exceptional  intellect.  She  did  not 
suspect  that  she  could  have  scanned  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  sea  and  land  spread  out  around  the  coast- 
guards' refuge  without  finding  a  human  mind 
Avorthy  so  much  as  to  hold  mere  passing  inter- 
course with  hers. 

She  never  looked  upon  this  existence  as  perma- 
nent. It  could  not  last.  Something  would  come, 
some  change  for  good  or  evil,  and  the  powers — 
the  infinite  womanly  powers  of  love  and  self- 
sacrifice — would  have  a  larger  scope.  Meanwhile 
she  did  her  duty  by  ^Irs.  Wylie  with  unfailing 
energy  and  inexhaustible  cheerfulness.  Between 
these  two  women,  as  between  the  elder  and  Theo 
Trist,  there  had  been  no  definite  exchange  of 
sentiments.  Both  would  have  said  that  their 
tacit  devotion  to  each  other  was  nothing  else 
than  a  practical  worldly  arrangement  of  mutual 
advantage  and  equal  benefit. 

Mrs.  Wylie  was  almost  her  old  self  again.  At 
times  the  former  cheerfulness  of  demeanor  would 
lighten  up  the  old  house.  There  was  the  same 
capable  sense  of  comfort  in  her  presence,  the  same 
readiness  to  make  the  best  of  unpropitious  en- 
vironments. Her  own  sorrow,  never  publicly 
aired,  was  hidden  deejily  beneath  a  certain  cheer- 


tVVL'S  HALL,  373 

fulness  which  can  only  be.  described  as  worldly. 
Worldliness  is  not  a  vice,  it  is  a  social  virtue. 
Why  should  we  parade  our  sorrows  and  clothe 
ourselves  in  a  meek  coat  of  obtrusive  resignation  ? 
There  is  enough  grief  in  life  to  justify  a  little 
slurring  over,  a  little  avoidance,  of  grievous  topics. 
If  Mrs,  Wylie  never  referred  to  her  late  hus- 
band in  touching  terms,  it  was  not  because  his 
memory  was  devoid  of  meaning  to  her  ;  it  was 
because  she  cordially  disliked  any  approach  to 
cant,  because  the  memory  was  too  sacred  a  thing 
to  be  discussed.  Of  course,  society  at  large  and 
her  neighbors  in  particular  had  a  say  in  the  matter 
■ — the  usual  kind  of  say — flavored  with  tea  and 
thin  bread,  garnished  with  spite  and  kindly  malice. 
But  Mrs.  Wylie  had  always  been  rashly  indiffer- 
ent to  criticism.  She  had  chosen  to  ignore  the 
precious  advice  of  sundry  female  counselors,  who 
knew  infinitely  more  about  her  affairs  and  their 
mismanagement  than  she  did  herself.  And  this 
was  the  result — the  neighborhood  Avould  talk,  it  is 
a  way  neighborhoods  have,  and  really  there  was 
cause  for  it.  Cause,  indeed — I  should  think  so  I 
Why,  Miss  Ferret,  the  elderly  unmarried  daughter 
of  the  late  vicar  of  Wyvenwich,  had  never  even 
been  told  the  details  of  the  small  tragedy  in  Nor- 
way. And  instead  of  coming  down  quietly  to 
Wyl's  Ilall  the  widow  had  actually  lived  in  her 
chambers  in  town — aflat,  near  Piccadilly.  A  flat, 
indeed,  and  Admiral  Wylie  scarce  cold  in  his  grave  !, 
There  is  some  deep  appi;oach  in  this  which  is  not 
quite  clear  to  my  obtuse  male  brain,  but  1  am 
assured  upon  the  best  authority  that  the  matter 
was  much  spoken  of  at  Wyvenwich.  There  are 
some  people  whose  chief  aim  in  life  seems  to  be 
to  avoid  being  spoken  of.     They  try  all  their  days 


374 


SUSPENSE. 


to  walk  in  a  trodden  path,  to  live  a  vegetating 
existence,  which  is  so  absolutely  commonplace 
and  everyday,  so  compassed  about  by  rule  and  the 
safe  guiding  of  precedent,  that  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  left  to  speak  about.  Then  they  shako 
their  lace-caps,  or  pull  down  their  starched  waist- 
coats, and,  in  the  self  laudation  of  their  bloodlesf* 
hearts,  are  happy. 

All  through  February  and  March  the  two  ladies 
had  lived  happily  at  Wyl's  Hall,  without  longing 
for  the  busier  life  of  London.  The  human  mind 
is  even  more  adaptable  to  circumstancus  than  the 
body  that  carries  it.  Small  interests  soon  take 
the  place  of  large,  and  quietude  follows  on  excite- 
ment without  any  great  mental  change  being 
necessary. 

At  times  Mrs.  Wylie  heard  about  Theodore  Trist 
— usually  a  vague  rumor  that  he  was  in  London, 
or  Paris,  or  Berlin.  \\\  his  deliberate  way  he  was 
building  up  for  himself  a  great  reputation  in  that 
inner  diplomatic  world  wliich  is  a  sealed  chamber 
for  prying  journalism  of  the  cheaper  sort.  Upon 
certain  international  subjects  the  newspaper  ho 
served  was  without  rival,  but  the  closest  ob- 
server could  not  detect  his  pen  or  assign  any 
statement  to  him.  The  secret  remained  inviolate 
between  himself  and  his  editor.  The  position  of 
Theodore  Trist  was  unique,  and  has  not  since 
been  approached.  His  grasp  of  the  great  subject 
of  war  was  extraordinary  at  this  time  of  his  life, 
when  all  his  faculties  were#n  full  strength.  From 
the  lock  of  a  Berden  rifle  to  the  construction  of  a 
trench,  from  the  strap  of  a  knapsack  to  the  de- 
tails of  a  treaty,  his  knowledge  was  unrivaled.  In 
diplomacy  he  could  have  made  his  mark  had  he 
80  wished,  but  he  contented  himself  with  study- 


IVyl'S  HALL. 


37S 


ing  tho  art  as  a  sailor  learns  astronomy — merely 
as  a  factor  in  his  profession.  In  some  countries 
he  was  cordially  hated — notably  in  Germany, 
where  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  his  position 
were  incomprehensible.  The  Teutonic  mind  can- 
not grasp  certain  motives  which  solel}'  depend 
upon  a  sense  of  honor  or  find  birth  in  a  scrupulous 
uprightness.  Far  be  it  from  this  impartial  pen 
to  speak  ill  of  any  man  or  men  ;  but  having  lived 
among  Germans  in  their  own  country,  in  their 
daily  life  and  work,  also  in  other  countries  and 
in  different  circumstances  ;  having  had  transac- 
tions—friendly, commercial,  and  unfriendly — 
with  them,  I  hereby  make  note  of  the  fact  that 
our  self-complacent  neighbors  are  mentally  and 
totally  unable  to  comprehend  why  a  man,  pos- 
sessing certain  knowledge  and  certain  power, 
should  hesitate  to  use  it  for  his  own  personal 
benefit. 

That  which  we  in  our  trammeled  smallness  call 
**  scruple  "  they  possess  not;  and  to  that  cause 
must  be  assigned  the  reason  that  the  great  Teu- 
tonic nation  never  understood  Theodore  Trist. 
His  position  was  to  them  an  anomaly.  They 
could  not  realize  that  he  was  capable  of  serving 
two  nations — France  and  England — lionestly  at  the 
same  time,  and  so  they  distrusted  him.  He  was 
hated  because  he  had  dared  to  criticise  a  military 
policy  which  Avas  modestly  considered  in  Berlin 
as  the  ablest  yet  conceived  since  armies  first  ruled 
the  world.  Added  to  this  there  was  the  rankling 
sore  of  an  unforgotten  story,  told  bluffly  and  with 
scathing  sarcasm  in  a  French  and  English  news- 
paper simultaneously — the  story  of  a  dastardly  at- 
tempt to  extract  information  from  a  faithful 
Alsatian   peasant   woman   by   means   of  what  ia 


^j6  susFEAsA: 

barbarous  ages  we   would   havo  deuoniiiiated  in- 
famous torture. 

Once  Mrs.  Wylie  heard  directly  from  Theodore 
Trist — a  short  note,  sent  with  some  quaint  old 
jewelry  he  had  brought  back  from  the  Slavonski 
Bazar  "in  Moscow  for  herself  and  Brcnda. 

March  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  low 
Sutlolk  lands  were  already  green  by  reason  of 
their  dampness,  when  a  second  communication 
arrived  at  Wyl's  Hall  from  the  busy  correspond- 
ent. 

"  May  I,"  he  asked  tersely,  '-'come  down  for 
a  day  or  two  to  see  you  ?  Please  answer  by 
telegraph." 

The  note  came  at  breakfast-time,  and  a  mes- 
senger was  at  once  despatched  to  Wyvenwich 
with  a  telegram. 

''  It  is  quite  an  age  since  we  have  seen  Theo," 
observed  Mrs.  Wylie  pleasantly,  as  she  wrote  out 
the  message. 

Brenda,  who  was  occupied  with  her  letters, 
acquiesced  carelessly  ;  but  in  a  few  moments  she 
laid  the  communications  aside  and  took  up  the 
newspaper.  "With  singular  nonchalance  she 
opened  it  and  went  toward  the  window.  There 
was  nothing  very  peculiar  in  this  action,  and  yet 
the  girl's  movements  were  in  some  slight  and  in- 
explicable way  embarrassed.  It  seemed  almost  ^ 
as  if  she  did  not  wish  Mrs.  Wylie  to  notice  that  ' 
she  was  looking  at  the  newspaper.  During 
breakfast  there  was  a  furtive  anxiety  visible  in 
the  manner  and  voice  of  these  deceitful  women. 
Each  attempted  to  rejoice  openly  over  the  ad- 
vent of  Theodore  Trist,  and  at  the  same  time 
carefully  avoided  seeking  a  reason  for  his  un- 
usual  mode  of  procedure ;    for  Trist  was  a  man 


iryrs  hall.  377 

who  never  invited  himself.  Indeed,  his  habit 
was  one  of  apprehensive  self-suppression  ;  except 
in  tlie  battlefield,  he  was  nervously  afraid  of 
being  de  trop. 

While  the  table  was  being  cleared  Brenda  left 
the  room  on  some  small  errand,  and  Mrs.  Wylie 
literally  jiouncedupou  the  newspaper  the  moment 
the  door  was  closed.  Y\'ith  practised  hand  and 
eye  she  sought  the  column  containing  foreign  in- 
telligence. Eagerly  she  scanned  the  closely-print- 
ed lines,  but  disappointment  was  the  evident 
result. 

"Not  a  word,^'  she  reflected — ''not  a  word. 
But  perhaps  that  is  all  the  worse.  Theo  is  com- 
ing down  here  for  some  specific  reason,  I  am  sure. 
Either  to  say  good-by  or  .  .  .  or  for  something 
else.     War — war — war  !  I  feel  it  in  the  air  !  " 

And  the  good  lady  stood  there  in  the  bow-win- 
dow gazing  through  the  rime-shaded  panes  away 
across  the  moor,  over  the  green  and  mournful  sea. 
Her  clever  gray  eyes  were  half-closed,  owing  to 
a  peculiar  contraction  of  the  eyelids — a  little  habit 
she  indulged  in  when  thinking  in  her  brave  cheery 
way  of  those  things,  my  sisters,  which  you  have 
greater  leisure  to  meditate  over  than  we  men — ■ 
of  the  happiness  and  the  great  joy  we  seem  ever 
about  to  grasp,  and  v/hich  with  melancholy  in- 
variability slips  through  our  earthly  fingers,  fades 
from  our  earthly  eyes.  I  sometimes  think  that 
when  other  women  would  have  wept  Mrs.  Wylie 
contracted  her  eyelids,  set  her  lips,  and  looked 
''very  courageous  and  of  a  good  faith." 

Unconsciously  she  was  looking  away  toward 
the  east,  to  those  mysterious  lands,  whence  so 
many  chapters  of  the  world's  history  have  been 
drawn, 


j;8  SUSPENSE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DIPLOMACY. 

It  happened  that  there  were  some  "warm  balmy 
days  toward  the  end  of  ^larch,  and  on  one  of  these 
Theodore  Trist  arrived  at  ^Yyvenwic]l.  ilrs. 
Wylie  and  Brenda  were  on  the  little  platform  to 
meet  him,  and  the  elder  lady,  in  her  practical  way, 
noted  the  lightness  of  his  baggage  and  drew  her 
own  conclusions. 

They  walked  to  Wyl's  Hall  through  the  High 
Street  of  the  little  town,  down  towards  the  sea,  up 
a  steep  path  on  the  cliff,  and  finally  across  the 
moor.  All  green  things  were  budding,  tender 
shoots  and  bold  weeds  alike.  Overhead  the  larks 
•were  singing  in  gladsome  chorus.  Side  by  side 
the  three  friends  walked,  and  talked  of  .  .  .  the 
weather.  I  mention  it  because  none  of  the  three 
took  much  interest  in  the  matter,  as  a  rule,  nor 
ever  talked  of  it. 

*'  Spring  is  upon  na  again,"  Mrs.  Wylie  had 
said  during  the  first  ])ause. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Trist  ;  "  this  weather  always 
makes  me  restless." 

*'  More  so  than  usual  ?"  inquired  Brenda  inno- 
cently. 

Trist  looked  at  her  sideways. 

**  Yes,"  he  murmured,  **  more  so  than  tisnal. 
I  suppose  a  new  fund  of  energy  creeps  into  ray 
somnolent  being." 

'*  Do  you  really  believe,"  inquired   Mrs,    Wylie 


D/PLOMACV.  37^ 

with  exceeding  great  interest,  "  that  tlie  weather 
has  so  much  effect  upon  one  as  that  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  There  is  no  denying  the 
fact  that  in  the  springtime,  wlien  all  things  are 
beginning  to  grow,  men  grow  energetic.  If  tliey 
be  working,  they  work  harder  ;  fighting,  fight 
harder  ;  playing,  play  harder.  The  majority  of 
events  happen  in  the  first  six  months  of  the  year." 

"  So  the  unexpected  may  be  expected  oefore 
July,"  suggested  Mrs.  Wylie  quietly. 

*'  That  may  be  expected  at  all  times." 

Thus  they  talked  on  in  vague  commonplaces, 
not  entirely  devoid  of  a  second  meaning  perhaps. 
Brenda  scarcely  Joined  in  the  conversation.  It 
was  enough  for  her  to  listen  to  these  two  strangely 
assorted  friends,  who  seemed  to  her  analytical  mind 
to  be  rather  different  in  each  other's  company  than 
they  were  before  the  rest  of  the  world.  She  never 
quite  lost  her  youthful  habit  of  studying  human 
minds — picking  them  to  pieces,  dissecting  them, 
assigning  motives,  seeking  reasons — and  her  be- 
lief in  the  influence  of  one  will  over  another  (even 
at  a  distance)  was  singularly  strong.  She  v/as 
pleased  to  consider  that  Theodore  Trist  and  Mrs. 
Wylie  possessed  some  hidden  sympathies  in  com- 
mon beyond  the  mere  ties  of  friendsliip  ;  and  it 
is  j)robable  that  she  gained  some  instruction  and 
porliaps  a  little  benefit  in  watching  their  inter- 
course. Certain  it  is  that  each  in  turn  spoke 
to  the  other  as  ho  or  she  spoke  to  no  one  else. 
Each  possessed  a  power  of  bringing  out  certain 
Cj'.'.alities  in  the  other,  which  power  was  unique. 
And  so  Brenda,  who  was  at  no  time  a  talkiitivo 
wom;ui,  listened  in  silence  as  they  walked  homo 
to  Wyl's  Hall  across  the  deserted  moor. 

When  they  had  reached  the  house  the  girl  went 


^8o  SUSPENSE. 

up-stairs  to  remove  her  hat  and  jacket,  leaving  her 
two  companions  together  in  the  library.  This 
was  a  good-sized  room  witli  a  broad  old-fashioned 
bow-window,  of  which  even  the  panes  of  glass 
were  curved,  while  all  round  it  there  was  a  low 
window-seat  softly  cushioned.  In  the  broad  fire- 
place some  logs  of  driftwood  burnt  slowly  and  si- 
lently, a  with  steady  glow  of  heat,  as  only  driftwood 
burns. 

Trist  went  straight  to  the  window  and  stood  in 
the  center  of  it,  with  his  strong  lean  hands  hang- 
ing idly.  His  eyes  were  soft  and  meek  and  dreamy 
as  ever,  while  his  limbs  seemed  full  of  strength 
and  energy.  The  old  incongruity  was  still  appar- 
ent. 

Mrs.  Wylie  followed  him,  and  seated  herself  by 
the  window  at  the  end  of  the  bow,  so  that  the 
man's  profile  was  visible  to  her.  Thus  they  re- 
mained for  some  seconds  ;  then  he  turned  with 
grave  deliberation  and  met  her  steady  gaze. 

"  "Well  .  .  .  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Well  .  .  .?  "  he  reiterated. 

"  How  long  are  you  going  to  stay  ?  " 

''  Till  Monday." 

''  This  being  Friday  ..." 

He  signified  assent  and  turned  away  again. 

'^  Wliy  have  you  come  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Wylie  ab- 
ruptly, after  a  short  pause. 

This  time  he  avoided  meeting  her  eyes  by  the 
simple  expedient  of  staring  out  of  the  window. 

"  I  do  not  know  ..."  he  replied,  with  some  hes- 
itation. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  you  do  !  " 

He  wheeled   round  upon  his  heels   and  looked 
down  at  her  with  an  aggravatingly  gentle  smile. 

'*  Yes,  Theo,  you  do!     Why  have  you  come  ?  '* 


DIPLOMACY,  381 


^*  May  I  not  be  allowed,"  he  asked  lightly,  '*  a 
certain  desire  to  see  you  and  .  .  .  Brenda  ?  " 

'•  You  may,"  she  replied  ;  ''  but  that  is  not  the 
reason  of  your  coming," 

She  settled  herself  more  comfortably  on  the 
window-seat,  laid  aside  her  muff,  loosened  her 
jacket,  and  composed  herself  to  a  long  wait  with 
a  cheery  determination  eminently  character- 
istic. 

"■  In  the  sirring  ..."  he  begau,  in  a  patient 
voice  which  seemed  to  contain  the  promise  of  a 
long  story. 

*'  The  young  man's  fancy  ..."  continued  Mrs. 
Wylie. 

' '  Lightly  turns,"  he  said  gravely,  taking  up  the 
thread,  "  to  thoughts  of  .  .  .  war." 

At  the  last  word  he  lowered  his  voice  suddenly, 
and  turned  upon  her  as  if  to  see  its  effect.  She 
merely  raised  her  eyebrows  and  looked  at  him 
speculatively.  At  last  she  gave  a  little  nod  of  the 
head,  signifying  comprehension. 

''  Then  you  have  come  to  say — good-by  ?  " 

Here  her  voice  failed  a  little.  With  care  she 
could  have  prevented  such  an  occurrence  ;  but 
perhaps  she  spoke  a  trifle  recklessly — perhaps  she 
did  not  care  to  conceal  the  feeling  which  was  be- 
trayed by  that  passing  break  in  her  mellow  sym- 
pathetic tones.  When  it  was  too  late,  she  closed 
her  lips  with  a  small  snap  of  determination,  and 
looked  up  at  him  smiling  defiantly. 

''  N"ot  necessarily,"  he  replied  coolly.  "  It  may 
mean  that ;  or,  at  least,  it  may  mean  that  I  am 
summoned  away  at  such  short  notice  that  there 
will  be  no  opportunity  of  coming  again.  Person- 
ally, I  should  prefer  it  to  be  so.  The  pastime 
of  saying  good-by   may   possess  a  certain  senti- 


382  SUSPENSE. 

mental  value,  but  it  is  a  weakness  which   is  best 
avoided." 

Mrs.  Wylie  continued  to  watch  the  young  man's 
face  with  speculative  criticism.  It  is  just  possible 
that  she  suspected  liim  of  talking  nonsense,  as  it 
were,  against  time  or  against  himself. 

"Is  your  information  of  a  general  description, 
or  have  you  certain  advice  that  war  is  immi- 
nent ?  " 

Trist  smiled  almost  apologetically  as  he  replied 
with  caution. 

*'  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  there  will  be  a 
big  war  before  the  summer." 

"Turkey  and  Russia,  of  course  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  go  with  Turkey,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  The  losing  side  again  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Wylie 
diplomatically. 

"  Probably  ;  but  not  without  a  good  fight  for 
it.  It  will  not  be  such  an  easy  matter  as  the 
Russians  imagine." 

"  Where  will  you  be  ?  "  asked  the  persistent 
lady.     "  At  Constantinople  or  .  .  ." 

"  At  the  front  !"  said  Trist. 

The  widow  turned  aside  and  looked  out  of  the 
window.  Across  tiio  moor,  on  the  edge  of  the 
cliff,  a  coastguardsman  was  pacing  backward  and 
forward  with  a  measured  tread  acquired  at  sea, 
and  from  the  window  they  watched  him  in  a 
mechanical,  semi-interested  way. 

"  Do  vou  know,"  said  Mrs.  AVvlie  at  length,  in 
a  half-shamefaced  way,  "  I  believe  I  am  beginning 
to  lose  mv  nerve  ?  Is  it  a  foretaste  of  approach- 
ing old  age  ?  I  really  believe  I  am  going  to  be 
anxious  about  you." 


DIPLOMACY.  l?>l 

Her  semi-bantering  tone  justified  Trist's  easy 
laugli.  He  took  it  for  granted  that  Mrs.  Wylie 
was  not  speaking  seriously. 

"You  must  not  allow  yourself,"  he  expostulated, 
*'  to  get  into  bad  habits  of  that  sort."' 

"Still,"  argued  the  widow  in  the  same  tone,  '*' I 
do  not  see  why  you  should  be  free  from  the  re- 
straining and  'salutary  feeling  that  there  is  some- 
one waiting  for  you  at  home." 

It  was  hard  to  tell  whether  Mrs.  Wylie  meant 
more  than  the  mere  words  conveyed  or  no.  Trist 
seemed  to  hesitate  before  replying. 

^'1  am  never  free  from  thai — but  it  is  not  nec- 
essary ;  my  foolhardy  days  are  over." 

"■  And  this  is  to  be  the  last  time  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
"Wylie,  consoling  herself. 

"  Yes.     The  last  time  !  " 

There  was  a  strange,  hard  ring  in  the  young 
wanderer's  tone  as  he  echoed  the  foreboding  words 
and  turned  gravely  away.  The  sound  seemed  to 
strike  some  sympathetic  chord  in  the  good  lady's 
heart,  for  she,  too,  looked  almost  mournful. 

"  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  have  you  safe  back 
again,"  murmured  Mrs.  Wylie  in  an  undertone. 
The  remark  was  hardly  addressed  to  him,  and  he 
allowed  it  to  pass  unnoticed.  Presently,  however, 
he  turned  and  looked  into  her  face  with  some 
anxiety  depicted  on  his  calm  features.  Then  he 
took  a  step  or  two  nearer  to  her. 

••^This  will  never  do,"  he  said  gravely,  standing 
in  front  of  her  with  his  strong  hands  clenched. 

She  gave  rather  a  lame  little  laugh,  and  looked 
up  with  a  deprecating  glance. 

"  Theo,  I  am  afraid  I  am  not  so  plucky  as  I 
used  to  be.  My  nerve  is  gone.  I  think  I  left  it 
.  ,  ,   at  Fjaerholm, " 


384  SUSPENSE. 

He  inado  no  reply,  but  merely  stood  by  her  in  his 
silent  manliness,  and  from  his  presence  she  some- 
how gathered  comfort,  as  women  do — from  your 
presence  and  mine  sometimes.  Although  we  be 
of  coarser  fiber,  failing  to  grasp  the  hidden  patlios 
of  everyday  life — the  little  trials,  the  petty  sor- 
rows ;  failing  often  to  divine  tlie  motives  that 
grow  out  of  a  finer,  truer,  nobler  nature  than 
ours,  and  always  failing  to  appreciate  the  unself- 
ishness of  woman's  love — despite  all  these,  our 
presence  is  at  times  a  couifort  because  of  the  greater 
strength  that  does  or  should  lie  within  us. 

Xo  reference  had  hitherto  been  made  between 
Mrs.  Wvlie  and  Trist  to  the  events  attending  the 
last  voyage  of  the  Ilermione.  A  year  had  not  yet 
elapsed,  and  the  Admiral's  nauie  was  still  avoided. 
Trist  was  of  a  singularly  sympathetic  nature, 
although  he  evinced  some  conteni^it  for  death  it- 
self, which  was  a  mere  matter  of  familiarity  ;  and 
it  was  his  creed  that  things  and  names  which 
cause  a  pang  of  sorrow  are  best  left  in  oblivion. 
Mrs.  Wylie  was  outwardly  little  changed,  but  he 
knew  that  the  wound  was  by  no  means  healed, 
and  he  had,  therefore,  allowed  all  recollection  of 
the  Hermione's  sorrowful  voyage  to  die  from  his 
memory.  Xo  doubt  the  great  healer  Time  would 
do  for  Mrs.  Wylie  what  he  has  done  for  us  all 
since  the  days  of  Adam — but  it  was  too  soon  yet. 
In  the  annals  of  sorrow  a  year  is  no  long  period. 
It  has  often  struck  me  that  we  have  to  lament 
over  one  singular  trait  in  the  mechanism  of  the 
human  mind.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  effect  of  joy 
is  so  short-lived,  while  sorrow  holds  its  own  so 
long.  There  are  so  many  varieties  of  sorrow  that 
by  the  time  we  have  tasted  most  of  them  and  have 
become  accustomed  to  the  flavor,  life  itself  js  at 


DIPLOMACY.  385 

an  end,  and  lo  I  we  have  had  no  time  to  enjoy  it-s 
pleasures  by  reason  of  the  years  spent  in  wrestling 
■with  wo. 

Theo  Trist  held  his  peace  sympathetically  and 
yet  without  encouragement.  Sirs.  Wylie  no  doubt 
understood  his  motive,  for  they  possessed  in  com- 
mon that  desire  of  concealing;  the  seamv  side 
Avhich  Brenda  had  characterized  as  cowardly.  In 
her  strong  young  courage  (self-assertive  as  all 
young  virtues  are)  she  seemed  to  take  a  pride  in 
facing  untoward  things — indeed,  she  sought  them  ; 
while  these  two,  in  their  greater  experience, 
slurred  them  over  as  a  clever  painter  slurs  over 
certain  accessories  in  his  picture,  in  order  that 
the  brighter  objects  may  stand  more  firmly  on  the 
face  of  the  canvas. 

''Xevertheless,"  he  said  more  cheerily,  return- 
ing to  the  original  question,  **  you  are  the  pluckiest 
woman  I  have  ever  met  I  You  must  not  give  way 
to  this  habit  of  anxiety,  for  it  is  nothing  but  a 
habit — a  sort  of  moral  cowardice.  It  serves  no 
purpose.  An  over-anxious  man  misses  his  op- 
portunities by  moving  too  soon  ;  an  over-anxious 
woman  has  no  peace  in  life,  because  she  can  do 
nothing  but  watch." 

Mrs.  Wylie  laughed  pleasantly. 

"No!''  she  exclaimed,  with  determination. 
*'  It  is  all  right,  Theo  ;  I  will  not  give  way  to  it. 
My  anxiety  is  only  anticipatory  ;  when  the  moment 
comes  I  am  generally  up  to  the  mark." 

"With  a  brave  smile  she  nodded  to  him  and 
moved  toward  the  door,  carrying  her  gloves  and 
muff.  He  followed  in  order  to  open  the  door,  for 
he  had  some  strange,  old-fashioned  notions  of 
politeness  whicli  promise  to  become  fossilized  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  century. 

25 


386  SUSPENSE. 

''"Will  it  be  a  long  war?"  she  asked,  before 
passing  out  of  the  room. 

He  answered  without  deliberation,  as  if  he  had 
already  pondered  over  the  question  at  leisure  with 
a  decisive  result. 

"  I  think  so.  It  will  go  on  all  through  the 
summer  and  autumn.  As  things  get  worse,  Tur- 
key will  probably  pull  herself  together.  It  is  a 
way  she  has.  It  may  even  continue  actively  right 
on  into  the  winter.  The  Turks  will  be  on  the 
defensive,  which  suits  them  exactly.  Put  a  Turk 
into  a  trench  with  a  packet  of  cigarettes,  a  little 
food,  a  rifle,  and  a  sackful  of  cartridges,  and  it 
will  take  a  considerable  number  of  Russians  to  get 
him  out." 

"  I  hope  it  will  not  extend  into  the  winter," 
said  Mrs.  Wylie,  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  So  do  T." 

He  closed  the  door  and  walked  slowly  back 
toward  the  bow-window.  There  he  stood  staring 
out,  with  eyes  that  saw  but  understood  not,  for 
many  minutes. 

"lam  not  quite  sure,"  he  muttered  at  last, 
*'  that  I  have  done  a  wise  thing  in  coming  to 
Wyl's  Hall ! " 


CHAPTER   XL 

GOOD-BY. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  hours  Theodore  Trist 
was  quite  at  home  at  AVyl's  Hall.  These  three 
people  had  lived  together  before,  and  knew  each 
other's  little  ways.    Mrs.  Wylie,  the  personification 


GooD-B  y.  387 

of  comfort — Theo  Trist,  possessing  uoreal  compre- 
hension of  the  Avord — Brenda,  midway  between 
them,  with  a  youthful  faculty  for  adapting  her- 
self to  either.  The  narrow  limits  of  a  ship  soon 
break  down  the  smaller  social  barriers,  and  the 
memory  of  life  on  board  the  Hermione  knitted 
the  inmates  of  Wyl's  Hall  in  a  close  and  j)leasant 
familiarity.  At  times,  indeed,  the  union  of  the 
three  around  the  fireside  or  at  table  seemed  to 
emphasize  the  absence  of  the  fourth,  to  suggest 
the  vacancy  caused  by  tlie  stillness  of  a  pleasant 
voice,  the  absence  of  a  fine  old  face.  But  this 
slight  shadow  was  not  unpleasant,  because  it  had 
no  great  contrast  to  show  it  up.  None  of  the 
three  was  hilarious,  but  thei-e  Avas  a  pleasant 
sociability,  which  for  every-day  use  is  superior  to 
the  most  brilliant  flashes  of  wit. 

Very  soon  the  old,  semi-serious  style  of  con- 
versation found  place  again.  Brenda  fell  into  her 
former  habit  of  listening  (too  silently,  perhaps) 
to  Mrs.  Wylie  and  Theo,  accusing  them  at  times 
of  cynicism  and  worldliness.  Old  questions  came 
to  life  again — unfinished  discussions  were  renewed. 
Everything  seemed  to  suggest  the  Hermione. 

Again  and  again  Mr.-^.  Wylie  found  herself 
watching  the  two  young  people  thus  thrown  to- 
gether, and  on  each  occasion  she  remembered 
how  slie  had  watched  them  before  to  no  purpose. 
Since  the  pleasant  summer  days  spent  in  the 
Heimdalfjord  many  incidents  had  come  with  their 
petty  influences,  and  yet  these  two  were  in  no  way 
altered  toward  each  other.  One  great  difference 
was  ever  before  her  eyes,  and  yet  she  could  not 
detect  its  result.  Alice  Huston  was  now  a  free 
woman,  and  if  Trist  loved  her,  there  was  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  win  her  in  the  end ;  indeed, 


jSd  SUSFExVSE. 

there  was  great  cause  to  suppose  that  the  matter 
should  be  easy  to  him.  And  yet  there  was  tio 
change  iu  liis  manner  toward  tlie  girl  who,  in  all 
human  probability,  was  destined  to  bo  his  sister- 
in-law.  The  old  half-chivalrous,  half-brotherly 
way  of  addressing  her  and  listening  to  her  reply 
was  still  noticeable  ;  and  it  jtuzzled  the  widow 
greatly.  But  Bronda  seemed  to  take  it  as  u 
matter  of  course.  This  man  was  different  to  nil 
other  men  in  her  estimation  ;  it  was  only  natural 
that  his  manner  toward  her  should  be  unlike  that 
of  others.  And  now  a  subtle  change  took  place 
in  Mrs.  Wylie's  mind.  On  board  the  Hermione 
she  had  been  convinced  that  if  any  woman 
possessed  an  influence  over  Thoo  Trist,  that 
Avoman  was  Alice  Huston.  (The  widow  was  too 
experienced,  too  practical,  too  far-sighted  to  at- 
tempt a  definition  of  this  fascination  exercised  by 
a  woman  of  inferior  intellect  over  a  man  infinitely 
her  superior  in  ever}'  way.)  Kow  she  wa.s  equally 
sure  that  Trist  was  moved  by  no  warmth  of  love 
toward  the  beautiful  young  widow  who  had  so 
openly  thrown  herself  in  his  path. 

One  trifling  alteration  seemed  to  present  itself 
occasionally  to  the  good  lady's  watchful  eyes,  and 
this  was  a  well -hidden  fear  of  being  left  alone  to- 
gether. Whether  this  emanated  from  Theo  or 
Brenda  it  was  impossible  to  say,  but  its  presence 
was  unmistakable,  and  moreover,  whatever  its 
origin  may  have  been,  it  was  now  mutual.  At 
one  time  they  had  possessed  a  thousand  topics  of 
common  interest,  and  found  in  each  other's  con- 
versation an  unfailing  pleasure.  Now  they  both 
talked  to  her,  using  her  almost  as  an  interme- 
diary. 

On  the  Saturdav  morning,    while  dressing,  tha 


GOOD-BV.  3S9 

widow  meditated  over  these  things,  and  in  the 
afternoon  she  deliberately  sent  her  two  guests  out 
for  a  walk  together.  About  three  miles  down  tho 
coast,  in  the  very  center  of  the  marsh  lying  to  tho 
south  of  Mizzen  Heath  Moor,  was  a  ruined  light- 
house, long  since  superseded  by  a  lightship  rid- 
ing on  the  newly-formed  sandbank  four  miles  oif 
the  shore.  In  this  ruin  lived  an  old  marshmau, 
in  whose  welfare  Mrs.  Wylio  appeared  suddenly 
to  have  taken  a  great  interest.  For  him,  accord- 
ingly, a  parcel  was  made  up,  and  the  two  young 
people  were  despatched  immediately  after  lunch. 

Mention  has  already  been  made  of  Mrs.  Wylie's 
nervous  abhorrence  of  any  interference  in  what 
she  was  pleased  to  consider  other  people's  affairs. 
In  this  matter  she  had  at  last  made  up  her  mind 
to  act,  because  she  loved  these  two  as  her  own 
children,  and  there  was  in  her  kindly  heart  a 
haunting  fear  that  they  were  about  to  make  a 
muddle  of  their  lives. 

A  slight  haze  lay  over  the  land  as  the  two 
young  people  made  their  way  across  the  moor  to- 
ward the  coastguard-path — a  narrow  footway  for- 
ever changing  its  devious  course  before  the  en- 
croaching sea.  Before  their  eves  lay  a  vast  plain, 
intersected  here  and  there  with  watercourse  or 
sluice ;  while  away  to  tho  southward  rose  a  blue 
barrier  of  distant  hill.  Inland,  the  meadows  Avere 
green  and  lush  ;  while  nearer  to  the  sea  the  grass 
grew  sparsely,  and  there  were  small  plots  of  sand 
and  shingle  nourishing  naught  but  unsightly 
thistles. 

Already  the  clonds  were  freeing  themselves 
from  winter  heaviness,  and  in  their  manifold 
combinations  there  was  that  suggestion  of  still 
distance    which    is   characterisic  of  our  English 


390 


SUSPEmE. 


suuimer  days,  and  has  its  equal  in  no  other  land, 
over  no  other  sea. 

The  yellow  sun  w  ;i3  high  in  the  heavens,  with 
nothing  more  formidable  to  obstruct  its  rays  than 
a  slight  shimmering  haze.  The  air  was  light  and 
balmy — indeed,  in  earth  and  air  and  sea  there  was 
a  subtle  l)uoyaucy  which  tells  of  coming  spring, 
and  creates  in  men's  hearts  a  braver  contempla- 
tion of  life. 

It  was,  I  think,  a  dangerous  hour  to  send  two 
young  people  away  across  the  lonesome  marshland 
alone  together.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Wylie  watched 
tiieni  depart  without  a  pang  of  remorse  or  a  sting 
of  conscience.  Indeed,  she  calculated  the  risk 
with  equanimity. 

''  I  tliink."'  she  reflected,  "that  this  walk  to 
the  old  lightliouse  will  be  one  of  those  trifling 
incidents  which  seem  to  remain  engraved  in  our 
hearts  long  after  the  memory  of  greater  events  has 
passed  away.  They  are  both  self-contained  and 
resolute,  but  no  human  bein^  is  quite  beyond  the 
influence  of  outward  things.  ' 

For  some  time  the  two  young  people  spoke  in 
a  scrappy  way,  of  indifferent  topics.  The  narrow 
path  only  allowed  one  to  pass  at  a  time,  and  the 
moor  was  so  broken  that  progression  at  the  side 
of  the  path  was  almost  impossible.  After,  how- 
ever, the  Mizzen  Heath  Coastguard  Station  had 
been  left  behiiul,  and  the  preeipitous  slope  de- 
scended, the  sea-wall  aiTorded  better  walking, 
and  the  conversation  assumed  a  more  personal 
vein. 

''  Tell  me,"  said  Brenda  pleasantly,  "  your 
plans  in  case  of  war  !  We  know  absolutely  noth- 
ing of  vour  proposed  movements." 

''1  Ivuow    nothing   myself,  except   in   a   yerj 


GOOD-BY.  39 1 

general  way.     Of  course,   we  shall  be  guided  by 
circumstances." 

"We  .  .  .   ?" 

*'  Yes  ;  I  take  two  men  with  me.  The  campaign 
will  be  on  too  large  a  scale  for  one  man  to  watch 
unaided.  These  two  fellows  act  as  my  lieuten- 
ants. I  have  chosen  them  myself.  One  is  a 
future  baronet  with  a  taste  for  sport  and  liter- 
ature, which  is  a  rare  combination.  The  other  is 
a  soldier,  twenty-live  years  older  than  myself. 
AVe  shall  be  a  funny  trio  ;  but  I  think  it  will  be  a 
success,  for  we  mean  to  make  it  one.  The  two 
men  are  full  of  energy  and  as  hard  as  nails.  Our 
plans  are  almost  as  voluminous  and  as  compre- 
hensive as  Moltke's.  It  will  be  a  great  war,  and 
we  intend  our  history  of  it  to  be  the  only  one 
worth  reading.  The  old  soldier  is  a  Frenchman, 
so  we  shall  tell  our  story  in  two  languages  simul- 
taneously." 

^*  And  where  will  it  be — where  will  the  battles 
be  fought  ?  " 

*'It  is  hard  to  say,  because  so  much  depends 
upon  the  apathy  of  the  Turks.  They  will  prob- 
ably allow  them  to  cross  tlie  Danube  before  making 
an  effort  to  stop  them,  and  the  thick  of  it  may  be 
in  Bulgaria  again.  I  shall  be  at  the  Danube  to 
see  the  Russians  cross — probably  at  Galatz.  There 
are  small  towns  south  of  the  Danube  of  which  the 
names  will  be  historical  by  this  time  next  year, 
and  in  all  probability  there  are  men  who  will 
have  immortalized  themselves  before  then,  al- 
though they  are  quite  unknown  now.  War  is 
the  path  by  which  the  world  progresses." 

''  I  suppose  the  younger  Skobeleff  Avill  do  some- 
thing wonderful.  I  know  your  admiration  for 
him," 


392  SUSPENSE.  ■■ 

'•  Yes.  Jf  he  doe^  not  get  killed  before  he  Is 
aero33  the  Danube.  As  a  leader  I  admire  liim, 
but  not  as  a  strategist.  There  are  other  men  I 
know  of  also  who  will  come  to  the  front,  but  in 
the  Turkish  army  individuality  is  more  important 
than  in  the  Kussian.  The  lower  the  standard  of 
discipline  the  higher  is  tlic  power  of  personal  in- 
fluence over  an  army.  The  Turks  depend  entirely 
upon  the  individual  capabilities  of  a  few  men — 
Suleiman,  Osman,  Tefik,  and  a  few  others." 

Brenda  was  not  listening  with  the  attention  she 
usually  accorded  to  Theodore  Trist,  whatever  the 
subject  of  his  discourse  might  happen  to  be,  and 
he  knew  it.  She  had  a  strange  trick  of  lapsing 
into  a  stony  silence  at  odd  moments,  and  he  rarely 
failed  to  detect  the  slight  difference.  Such  fits 
of  absorption  were  usually  followed  by  the  raising 
of  some  deep  abstract  question,  or  an  opinion  of 
personal  bearing.  It  may  have  been  mere  chance 
that  caused  him  to  cease  somewhat  abruptly,  and 
continue  walking  by  her  side  in  silence  ;  or  it  is 
possible  that  he  knew  her  humors  as  few  people 
knew  them.  The  question  of  a  Eusso-Turkish 
war  had  suddenly  lost  all  interest,  and  he  might  as 
well  have  told  his  opinion  to  the  winds  as  to  this 
girl,  who  had,  a  moment  earlier,  been  a  most  in- 
telligent listener. 

For  some  time  they  Avalked  on  without  speaking. 
The  soft  turf  of  the  so-called  sea-M'all,  which  was 
nothing  else  than  an  embankment,  gave  forth  no 
sound  beneath  their  feet.  The  tide  was  out,  and 
the  day  being  still,  there  came  to  their  ears  only 
a  soft,  murmuring,  continuous  song  from  the 
little  waves. 

At  last  Brenda  turned  a  little  and  looked  at 
})iin   ii).  her  tl)oughtfiil,  analytical  way,  as    if  t<i 


GOdl)-py.  393 

read  on  his  featured  au  answer  to  some  question 
which  had  arisen  in  her  mind. 

*•■  Yes,"  said  Trist,  smiling  at  her  gently.  "  Go 
on.  You  are  about  to  propound  one  of  those  very 
deep  theories  which  invariably  suggest  themselves 
to  you  in  the  middle  of  my  most  interesting  ob- 
servations." 

She  laughed  rather  guiltily  as  she  shook  her 
head  in  denial. 

"'No.  ...   I    was  only  .   .   .   wondering." 

"  Wondering ?  "  he  repeated  interrogatively, 

but  she  omitted  to  answer   his  implied   question, 
and  he  did  not  press  it. 

''Do  you  know,  Theo,"  she  said,  after  a  little 
pause,  '"•  that  you  are  the  greatest  puzzle  I  have 
ever  come  across  ? '' 

"1  am  sorry,"  ho  murmured,  with  mock 
humility. 

••  Oh,  don't  apologize  !  I  dare  say  it  is  entirely 
unintentional.  What  I  cannot  understand  is 
your  nonchalant  way  of  talking  of  certain  things. 
For  instance,  nothing  seems  to  be  farther  froni 
your  thoughts  at  this  moment  than  the  possibility 
of  your  being  .   .   .   killed." 

He  chipped  off  the  head  of  a  withered  thistle 
witli  his  stick  l)efore  replying  in  a  low,  steady 
voice,  very  deliberately  : 

''  And  yet  nothing  is  nearer  to  them." 

'•'  That  is  what  I  cannot  understand.  I  think 
women  look  farther  ahead.  They  seem  to  have 
the  power  of  realizing  at  the  beginning  what  the 
end  mav  be — realizing  it  more  fully  than  men,  I 
mean." 

"  I  doubt  it  I "  he  answered.  "  I  have  to  make 
two  sets  of  arrangements,  two  sets  of  plans.  One 
takes  it  ior  granted  tluit  I  shall  come  through  it 


394-  sUS/'/uVSk. 

all  safely,  tho  other  gues  iipou  the  theory  that  J 
tshull  bo  killed.  Each  is  eoiiiplcte  in  itself,  inde- 
l)ondeut  of  its  conipaiiioii.  When  I  say  that  I 
■will  do  soniothiuti;  at  a  certain  time,  or  be  in  a 
certain  place,  there  is  a  •' I).  V/  understood, 
hidden  between  the  lines.  Evervthino:  is  of 
course  '  Deo  volente,"  but  you  would  not  have  me 
drag  it  in  obtrusively."' 

'*  No  .  .  .  naturally  not.  But  -what  I  cannot 
understand  is  your  power  of  facing  the  two  possi- 
bilities— or,  at  the  least,  the  latter — with  ap})areut 
indifference.  Is  that  the  difference  that  exists 
between  the  courage  of  a  man  and  that  of  a 
Avoman  ?  " 

**  Xo,"  he  replied,  looking  at  her  very  gravely, 
and  speaking  in  a  tone  which  gave  weight  to  words 
of  apparently  small  importance:  "  1  think  not, 
for  women  face  possibilities  and  even  certainties 
with  equal  pluck.  It  requires  as  much  courage 
to  remain  at  home  and  wait  as  it  does  to  go  out 
and  face  tho  danger,  for  danger  is  never  so  un- 
pleasant as  the  anticipation  of  it." 

She  remembered  these  words  afterward,  and  rec- 
ognized then  the  fuller  sense  he  had  intended 
them  to  convey.  In  the  meantime,  liowever,  she 
held  to  her  point. 

'•'It  is  not  exactly  in  that  way  that  I  mean,'' 
she  murmured  slowly.  "■  Xot  from  a  question  of 
personal  bravery  at  all.     I  meant  .  .  ." 

She  hesitated  in  embarrassment,  and  he  has- 
tened to  remove  it. 

"  Yes — go  on." 

"I  was  wondering  whether  you  ever  looked  at 
it  from  a  religious  point  of  view." 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  in  some  way  the 
pause  gave  a  greater  gravity  to  his  words. 


GOOD'S  y.  395 

**  Yes,  Brenda.  You  must  not  think  that. 
Every  man  has  his  religion,  and  I  have  mine.  It 
may  consist  in  faith  more  than  in  works,  perhaps, 
but  it  is  there,  nevertheless." 

"  But  you  are  half  a  fatalist." 

'*  In  some  degree  I  am,  but  I  do  not  go  so  far 
as  to  say  that  notliing  matters  !  Everything  mat- 
ters !  We  are  intended  to  do  our  best,  to  make 
the  best  of  our  lives  ;  but  there  is  undoubtedly  a 
scheme  which  is  beyond  our  reach  and  far  above 
our  petty  influence  or  endeavor." 

Brenda  was  no  mean  theologist,  and  she  now 
set  to  work  to  demolish  Trist's  system  of  fatalism, 
while  half  leaning  toward  it  herself.  Somewhat 
to  her  surprise  she  found  that  his  knowledge  upon 
certain  points  was  equal  to  her  own,  and  in  some 
cases  superior  ;  his  acquaintance  with  Eastern 
lore  and  Oriental  creeds  was  quite  beyond  her 
depth. 

In  this  manner  they  reached  the  lighthouse, 
passed  a  few  minutes  with  its  solitary  inmate,  and 
set  off  homeward  again  across  the  marsh.  Mrs. 
Wylie  would,  perhaps,  have  been  surprised  could 
she  have  overheard  their  conversation,  wliich  was 
upon  very  different  topics  from  what  she  had  ex- 
pected. 

Before  they  reached  tlie  rising  ground  at  the 
edge  of  the  moor,  the  sun  Avas  low  over  the  west- 
ei'n  plain.  A  faint  mauve-colored  haze  rose  from 
the  damp  earth  and  hovered  weirdly  among  the 
pollarded  oaks  and  rank  marsh  grasses.  The 
whole  scene  was  terribly  dismal  and  the  distant 
note  of  a  jack-snipe  seemed  only  to  add  to  the  life- 
lessness  of  the  land. 

As  they  passed  through  one  of  the  swing-gates 
on  the  sea-wall,  Brenda  turned  her  head,  and  ia 


396  suspfj^sj;. 

H  moment  the  characteristic  beauty  of  the  sunset 
caught  her  attention. 

"Look  !"  she  exclaimed  in  little  more  than  a 
whisper. 

He  obeyed,  closing  the  gate,  and  resting  his 
arms  upon  it.  Thus  they  stood,  side  by  side, 
without  speaking.  She  inlierpiire  upright  maid- 
enhood, with  the  sunset  glow  warming  her  re- 
fined face  with  a  hue  of  great  beauty,  for  her  eyes 
were  deep  and  pensive  as  woman's  eyes  rarely  are, 
while  her  sweet  lips  were  ])arted  with  a  simple 
faithful  wonderment  which  was  almost  childlike. 
He  rested  his  arms  u})on  the  gray,  moss-grown 
oak  of  the  gate,  and  looked  upon  the  hopeless 
scene  with  meekly  contemplative  eyes.  His 
square  cliin  was  thrust  forward,  and  the  indescrib- 
able incongruity  of  his  face  was  absurdly  promi- 
nent. There  was  a  great  strength  and  a  won- 
drous softness,  a  mighty  courage  and  a  meek  resig- 
nation, an  indefatigable  energy  and  a  philosophic 
calm.  All  these  were  suggested  at  once  in  this 
strange  Napoleonic  face.  80  may  the  great  Bona- 
parte have  leant  his  arms  upon  yon  low  wall  at 
Saint  Helena,  and  wondered  over  the  utter  in- 
comprehensibility of  human  existence. 

It  was  Brenda  who  at  last  broke  the  silence, 
without  moving  limb  or  muscle. 

'*  So  you  are  going  on  Monday  ?  " 

"  Yes  .  .  .1  must." 

Something  in  his  voice  caused  her  breath  to 
come  quickly. 

"  But  you  will  come  back  ?"  she  whispered  al- 
most pleadingly. 

He  moved,  and  laid  his  strong  bare  hand  oyer 
the  small  gloved  fingers  resting  on  the  gate, 

*'Ye8,  Brenda.     I  will  come  back  !" 


AT  WORIC. 


397 


Then  they  turned  and  walked  home  in  silence. 

That  was  their  farewell.  They  never  spoke  to- 
gether again  in  confidence  before  he  left  on  the 
Monday  morning.  There  was,  indeed,  a  pressure 
of  the  hand  and  a  cheery  word  of  parting  on  the 
little  platform  of  Wyvenwich  Station  ;  but  their 
two  souls  went  out  unto  each  other,  and  stood 
face  to  face  in  one  long  agonized  ecstasy  of  ])urt- 
ing  by  that  old  oaken  gate  upon  the  sea-wall. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

AT  WORK. 

1  HAVE  often  wondered  why  blasphemy  is  ex- 
cusable when  it  is  spoken  from  a  throne.  It 
seems  to  me  that  many  crmies  have  been  deliber- 
ately set  forth  upon  paper  under  the  exculpating 
heading  of,  "In  the  name  of  God — Amen.  "We," 
etc.,  etc.  This  thought  cannot  well  escape  sug- 
gestion while  perusing  a  declaration  of  war.  It  is 
a  subterfuge — a  mean  attempt  to  assign  the  re- 
sponsibility to  One  who  is  mightier  than  princes  or 
potentates.     God  does  not  declare  war — it  is  man. 

On  the  twenty-fourth  day  of  April,  eighteen 
hundred  and  seventy-seven,  the  Czar  of  all  the 
Russias  gave  forth  to  his  people  that,  bowing  his 
head  to  the  evident  desire  of  the  Almighty,  he 
reluctantly  declared  war  against  the  Ottoman 
Empire,  'There  was  much  rhetoric  about  Chris- 
tian nations  suffering  beneath  the  lash  of  Moham- 
medan hatred;   stories    were    told   of  shocking 


39?  SUSPENSE. 

cruelties  practicsed  upon  an  oppressed  people, 
coldly  Avorded  statements  were  made  of  raisgov- 
ernment,  misappro})riation,  theft.  And  the  rem- 
edy to  all  these  wari,  if  it  may  please  you,  war  I 
From  the  formal  declaration'  with  its  pharisaical 
self-laudation,  its  rolling  periods  and  mock  re- 
luctance, fourteen  letters  might  have  been  selected, 
and  set  in  order  so  as  to  spell  a  single  word  iu 
which  lay  the  explanation  of  it  all.  That  word 
was — ''  Constantinople.'"' 

Before  the  official  opening  of  hostilities,  Russia 
was  prepared,  and  Turkey  (despite  a  long  warn- 
ing) but  half  ready,  as  usual.  The  Russian 
troops  entered  Rouniania  and  Turkish  Armenia 
at  once,  the  inhabitants  of  both  countries,  with 
Oriental  readiness,  receiving  them  as  deliverers. 
The  day  following  the  declaration  of  war  saw  the 
occupation  of  the  town  of  Galatz. 

Theodore  Trist  had,  as  he  told  Brenda  he  in- 
tended, taken  up  his  quarters  in  this  small  town 
upon  the  Danube,  and  actually  passed  through  its 
streets  in  the  midst  of  the  Northern  troops  un- 
suspected. When  the  conquerors  had  shaken 
down  into  their  new  quarters,  and  military  dis- 
cipline was  beginning  to  make  itself  felt  through- 
out the  city,  he  discreetly  vanished,  and,  crossing 
the  Danube  in  a  small  boat,  made  his  way  south. 
At  this  time  England  began  to  receive  the  benefit 
of  a  brilliantly  conceived  and  steadily  executed 
plan  of  transmitting  news.  Trist  and  his  two 
lieutenants  appeared  to  haunt  the  entirety  of  the 
Ottoman  Empire.  One  of  them  appeared  to  find 
himself  invariably  within  reach  of  any  spot  where 
events  of  interest  might  be  occurring.  And  from 
this  time  until  the  end  of  the  great  war  this  cease- 
less flow  of  carefully-sifted  information  continued 


AT  WORIC.  399 

to  set  eastward  to  Paris  and  London.  The  first 
official  notice  taken  was  an  ini2:»erial  decree,  for- 
bidding the  admittance  into  Eussia  of  the  French 
and  English  journals  to  whicli  Trist  was  attached 
as  war-correspondent.  Tliis  heavy  punishment  in 
no  way  affected  the  equanimity  of  these  mistaken 
organs,  of  which  the  circuLation  in  the  Northern 
empire  had  never  attained  a  height  worth  consid- 
eration or  even  mention.  A  sa<ckful  of  copies 
under  private  addresses  had  been  the  utmost  limit, 
and  out  of  these  the  majority  were  usually  lost  in 
transmission  with  tliat  patient,  bland  persistency 
by  means  of  which  the  Russian  Government  usually 
succeeds  in  quelling  any  private  and  individual 
attempt  to  learn  what  the  world  is  saying.  It  is 
remarkable  how  little  is  known  in  England  of  the 
method  of  procedure  in  a  country  so  near  at  hand 
as  Russia.  I  verily  believe  that  Hong  Kong  is 
better  known  than  Moscow,  Valparaiso  than  Tver. 
It  is,  for  instance,  a  matter  of  surprise  to  many 
intelligent  English  men  and  women  to  learn  that 
our  newspapers  are,  with  one  or  two  exceptions, 
forbidden  entrance  into  the  Czar's  dominions. 
And  in  the  case  of  those  exceptions  there  is  no 
circulation — each  copy  comes  under  a  private 
cover,  with  theprobability  of  being  opened  several 
times  on  the  way.  Moreover,  objectionable  para- 
graphs, or,  in  the  case  of  illustrated  journals, 
sketches  in  any  way  connected  with  the  seamy 
side  of  Slavonic  life,  are  ruthlessly  obliterated 
with  a  black  pad.  The  transmission  of  news  is 
virtually  in  the  hands  of  the  Government,  with 
the  natural  result  that  all  untoward  events  are 
hushed  up,  while  pleasant  things  are  glorified  to 
the  infinite  profit  of  those  in  office.  Respecting 
the  progress  of  humanity,  the  events  of  the  outer 


400  St'SP/wYS/-:. 

world,  and"  the  march  of  civilization,  tbe  whole 
of  the  vast  continent  of  Russia  is  kept  in  the  dark. 
Even  with  our  marvelous  facilities,  the  transmis- 
sion of  news  over  such  vast  tracts  of  land,  across 
such  stupendous  plains,  would  be  a  matter  of  some 
difficulty  ;  it  is,  therefore,  oas\'  to  arrest  the  prog- 
ress of  thought,  and  force  back  men's  brains  into 
the  apathetic,  voiceless  endurance  of  brutes. 

Under  these  eircnmstances  it  will  be  readily  un- 
derstood that  tlie  views  of  the  great  Knglish  criti(; 
Avcre  looked  tipon  with  fear  and  dislike  ;  addition- 
ally so,  perhaps,  l)ecause  no  one  could  accuse  him 
of  partiality  or  political  l)ias.  He  studied  war  as 
an  art,  whereas  the  Russian  staff  had  in  most  cases 
taken  it  up  as  a  profession. 

During  the  months  that  followed  many  brave 
men  came  to  the  front  ;  but  few  rei)utations  were 
made,  whereas  a  number  were  lost.  Gourko  and 
SkobelefP  proved  that  their  personal  courage,  their 
calm  assum])tion  of  a  terrible  responsibility,  was 
something  almost  supei-human  ;  but  as  strategists 
they  came  within  measurable  distance  of  failure. 
The  one  has  the  stain  of  three  thousand  lives  lost 
in  one  bold  march  upon  his  military  reputation — 
namely,  the  crossing  of  the  Balkans  ;  while  the 
other,  the  wild,  half-mad  Skobeleff,  will  have  it 
remembered  against  him  that  two  thousand  of 
his  ''  children  "  fell  in  the  storming  of  one  redoubt, 
and  three  thousand  more  perished  in  attempting 
to  hold  it. 

But  in  fairness  to  these  reckless  soldiers,  it 
must  be  kept  in  mind  that  the  Russians  played, 
in  a  literal  as  well  as  metaphorical  sense,  an  up- 
hill game.  They  had  to  storm  heights,  "  I'ush  " 
redoubts,  and  advance  on  trenches  against  the 
Berdan  rifle  in  the  hands  of  the  Turk.     Just  aa 


AT  WORk.  46 i 

each  man  knows  his  own  business  best,  so  have 
we  all  our  special  way  of  fighting.  The  Russians 
are  not  brilliant  at  the  attack,  because  they  arc 
too  reckless  of  life,  and  in  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  expose  themselves  with  criminal  prodi- 
gality ;  whereas  there  is  no  finer  defender  of  a 
fortified  position  than  the  Turk. 

Again,  Skobelelf  and  Gourko  were  hampered 
by  being  in  too  constant  and  frequent  communi- 
cation with  the  royal  amateui'  soldiers  in  their 
comfortable  quarters  on  the  Danube. 

At  first  the  Russians  seemed  to  carry  all  before 
tliem,  and  the  chronic  unreadiness  of  the  enemy 
was  a  matter  for  laughter.  Having  successfully 
crossed  the  Danube  toward  the  end  of  June,  driv- 
ing the  Turks  before  them  step  by  step  to  Matchin, 
the  campaign  was  looked  upon  as  a  mere  parade. 
But  Theodore  Trist,  retreating  slowly  from  the 
Danube  before  the  advance  of  the  Northern  army, 
held  a  different  opinion. 

"  At  present,'' ne  wrote  in  the  second  week  in 
July,  "  everything  seems  to  be  against  us.  But 
the  time  is  coming  when  some  good  men  will 
force  their  way  to  tlie  fore  ;  and  the  poAver  of  in- 
dividual influence  over  an  ill-disciplined  but  well- 
armed  horde  like  this  is  incalculable.  Suleiman 
Pasha  is  said  to  be  coming  with  his  hardened 
troops,  and  from  him  great  things  may  be  ex- 
pected, lie  is  a  good  soldier,  with  an  energy 
which  is  rendered  more  striking  by  its  rarity  in 
this  country.  When  last  I  saw  him  he  was  spare 
in  figure,  much  browned  by  exposure,  singularly 
active,  and  as  hard  as  nails.  In  appearaiice  he  is 
unlike  a  Turk,  being  fair,  with  ruddy  hair  and 
quick  eyes.  Ilis  men  are  more  like  a  band  of  hill- 
robbers  than  a  trained  armv,  for  they  possess  no 
a6 


402  StrsPEATSE. 

clistiuct  nnifoi'm  ;  but  tlioy  are  full  of  fight.  His 
statf  is  ludioi'ously  informal,  possessing  no  fine 
titles,  and  being  entirely  destitute  of  gold  braid. 
The  Turks  are  a  strange  mixture  of  impassibility 
and  stubbornness.  At  times  their  fatalism  gives 
way  to  an  overwhelming  strength  of  purpose,  al- 
most defying  fate,  and  it  is  quite  witliin  the 
bounds  of  possibility  that  a  trifling  error  on  the 
])art  of  the  Russians  may  turn  the  tide  suddenly 
ii])on  them,  and  a  disastrous  retreat  to  the  Danube 
will  follow.'; 

By  the  time  that  the  letter  from  which  the 
above  is  extracted  arrived  in  England,  the  far- 
seeing  correspondent's  prophecy  had  in  part  fallen 
true.  The  tide  of  fortune  had  set  in  in  favor 
of  the  Moslem,  and  although  a  retreat  was  not  as 
yet  whispered  of,  it  was  held  certain  by  experts 
that  more  men  were  absolutely  required  by  the 
Russians  in  order  to  continue    the  campaign. 

At  this  time  the  name  of  a  hitherto  unkno^vll 
town  in  the  north  of  Bulgaria  was  constantly  on 
men's  tongues.  Until  now  no  one  had  ever  heard 
of  Plevna,  which,  nevertheless,  was  destined  to  be 
the  chief  topic  of  conversation  throughout  all  the 
civilized  v/orld  for  many  months  to  come.  The 
genius  of  one  man  raised  this  small  city  from  its 
obscui'ity  to  a  proud  place  in  the  annals  of  war- 
fare, and  the  defense  of  Plevna  will  ever  stand 
forth  as  a  proof  of  the  influence  of  one  strong  in- 
dividuality over  a  whole  army  ;  and,  one  might 
almost  say,  upon  the  march  of  events. 

Of  course  it  is  easy  to  state  that  much  depended 
upon  chance,  but  it  is  not  only  in  warfare  that  we 
all  have  to  wait  npon  chance.  Those  who  step 
in  quickly  when  fortune  leaves  the  gate  ajar  are 
the  winners  m  the  war  wo   arc  engaged   in   her« 


AT  WORK.  403 

below.  Had  Krudener  occnpied  Plevna  when  lie 
received  the  order  to  do  so,  Osman  Pasha  might 
have  died  without  leaving  his  mark  upon  the 
sands  of  time.  But  the  Russian  delayed,  and  the 
Turk  stepped  in.  Osman  saw  at  once  the  great 
strategetic  value  of  Plevna,  and  Kriidencr,  the 
man  of  many  mistakes,  was  outwitted. 

**  I  see,"  wrote  Trist  at  this  time  in  a  private 
letter  to  his  editor,  which  was  not  published  un- 
til later,  "a  subtle  change  in  the  atmosphere  of 
events.,  It  seems  to  me  that  the  tide  is  turning. 
I  will  now  attach  myself  definitely  to  the  fortunes 
of  Plevna.  The  time  has  come  for  me  to  give  up 
my  ubiquitous  endeavors  ;  to  Avatch  one  spot  only. 
My  colleagues  are  splendid  fellows,  full  of  dash 
and  energy  ;  on  them  you  must  now  depend  for 
the  other  movements  of  the  campaign.  Osman 
is  here,  and  Skobelelf  is  in  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try as  far  as  I  can  learn — there  is  a  feverish  rest- 
lessness among  the  Russians,  which  suggests  his 
presence.  With  these  two  men  face  to  face  Plevna 
will  become  historical,  if  it  is  not  so  already,  for 
it  will  mark,  firstly,  the  greatest  military  bungle 
of  the  age  (Kriidener's  neglect)  ;  secondly  .  .  . 
who  knows  ?  Osman  is  a  wonderful  fellow — that 
is  all  I  can  tell  you  now.  I  remain  here,  and  if 
we  are  surrounded  I  will  stick  to  Plevna  until  the 
end."- 

The  recipient  of  this  letter,  sitting  in  his  quiet 
little  room  in  Fleet  Street,  looked  at  the  last 
words  again.  They  were  underlined  with  a  firm 
dash,  and  immediately  below  followed  the  simple 
signature.  About  the  entire  letter  there  was  a 
straightforward  sense  of  purpose — a  feeling,  as  it 
were,  that  this  man  knew  what  he  was  doing,  and 
was  ready  to  face  the  consequence  of  every  action. 


404  SUSPENSE. 

The  editor  shook  his  vast  head  from  side  to  side 
with  a  quiet  aud  tolerant  smile. 

"  The  fever  is  upon  him,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a 
thousand  pities  that  he  is  not  a  soldier." 

Then  he  leant  forward  and  took  an  envelope 
from  the  stationery  case  upon  the  table  in  front  of 
him.  Into  this  he  slipped  the  folded  letter,  ad- 
dressing it  subsequently  to  Mrs.  Wylie.  at  AVyl's 
Hall,  Wyvenwich. 

On  the  last  day  of  July,  Prince  Schahofsky 
and  Baron  Kriidener  attacked  Plevna,  A  combi- 
nation had  been  intended,  but  Kriidener  was  again 
in  fault.  He  was  not  ready  at  the  hour  ap- 
pointed, and  Schahofsky  was  led  into  the  fatal 
error  of  attacking  a  superior  force  of  Turks  in 
a  fortified  position.  The  result  of  this  was  the 
loss  of  almost  the  whole  of  his  fine  army  corps. 
The  Russian  soldiers  charged  gallantly  but  fool- 
ishly upon  a  literal  wall  of  fire,  for  there  is  no 
man  steadier  in  a  trench  than  the  fatalist.  In 
some  years,  when  the  quick-firing  rifle  is  perfected, 
there  will  be  no  such  thing  as  carrying  a  breast- 
work at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  for  no  man  will 
live  to  stand  up  within  forty  yards  of  the  position 
held.  Even  at  Plevna,  against  an  imperfect  rifle 
in  the  hands  of  a  half- trained,  badly  fed,  poorly- 
accoutered  soldier,  the  slaughter  was  terrible,  and 
the  result  small.  Only  Skobeleff  succeeded  in 
really  and  literally  carrying  an  intrenchment  by 
the  bayonet ;  and  had  he  not  been  half  mad  with 
excitement  and  wholly  carried  away  by  the  wild 
lust  of  battle,  he  would  never  have  attempted  it, 
for  the  men  literally  crawled  over  heaps  of  their 
slain  comrades.  The  terrible  work  of  the  quick- 
firing  rifle  was  only  too  apparent. 

After  the  first  assault  upon  Plevna  the  Russian^ 


AT  WORK.  405 

settled  down  to  a  long  siege,  and  heavy  artillery  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  ill-fated  town  and  every 
point  of  vantage  on  the  surrounding  hills.  Step 
by  step  the  northern  foe  crept  up  toward  the 
town,  until  the  somber-clad  figures  within  the  re- 
doubts were  almost  recognizable  from  the  Russian 
lines. 

Finally,  it  was  one  day  announced  that  the  last 
communication  had  been  cut  off  and  Plevna  was 
surrounded.  Like  some  sullen  prisoner  in  the 
hands  of  a  ruthless  enemy,  the  fortress  stood 
grimly  silent,  and  all  the  world  wondered  pitifully 
what  terrible  tragedy  might  be  working  out  its 
latest  chapters  within  that  small  circle  of  blood- 
stained steel. 

Vague  reports  reached  England  that  there  could 
not  now  be  any  food  in  Plevna.  The  garrison 
must  be  starving.  AVomen  and  children  were — 
thank  God  ! — but  few  :  for  Osman  had  sent  them 
away.  Day  by  day  the  fall  of  this  unforeseen,  un- 
suspected stronghold  was  predicted,  but  day  after 
day  the  dingy  Crescent  hung  in  the  morning  breeze, 
and  every  point  was  guarded. 

The  editor  of  the  great  English  newspaper  sat 
in  his  little  room  in  Fleet  Street  and  watched 
events  from  afar.  No  word  reached  him,  for 
Plevna  was  silent,  but  he  displayed  no  anxiety. 

'•■  Wait  !  "  he  said  to  all  inquirers.  ''  "Wait  a 
bit.  Trist  is  in  there,  and  when  the  time  comes 
he  will  astonish  us  all.  One  can  always  rely  im- 
plicitly on  Trist  ! " 


4o6  SUSPENSE. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


PLEV2«-A. 


There  is  in  one  of  the  minor  streets  of  Plevna 
u  small  baker's  shop,  with  no  other  sign  indicating 
that  bread  may  be  bought  within  than  the  painted 
semblance  of  a  curiously  twisted  cake  upon  the 
yellow  wall  between  the  window  and  the  low  door. 

On  the  seventh  of  September,  eighteen  hundred 
and  seventy- seven,  this  painted  cake  was  the 
nearest  approach  to  bread  that  could  be  seen  in 
the  neighborhood.  For  many  weeks  there  had 
been  no  pleasant  odor  of  browning  loaves,  no 
warm  air  from  the  oven  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 
Curious  irony  of  fate  !  The  baker  had  died  of 
starvation.  I  almost  hesitate  to  tell  that  the  foul 
heap  of  clothing  lying  in  the  ditch  a  few  yards 
down  the  hill  was  all  the  earthly  remnant  of  the 
late  owner  of  this  useless  establishmeiit.  Useless 
because  there  was  nothing  in  Plevna  now  to  bake. 
He  had  been  dead  many  days,  but  there  seemed 
to  be  no  question  of  burying  him.  There  were 
too  many  wounded,  too  many  sick,  dying,  and 
festering  men,  for  the  living  to  have  time  to  think 
of  the  dead.  The  heavy  pestilential  air  was  full 
of  the  groans  of  these  poor  wretches. 

AVithin  the  little  shop  were  three  men — one 
seated  at  a  rough  table,  a  second  standing  before 
him,  the  third  perched  nonchalantly  on  the  win- 
dow-sill smoking  a  cigarette.  The  last-mentioned 
had  the  advantage  of  his  companions  in  the  mat- 


PLEVNA.  40f 

ter  of  years,  but  of  the  three  his  gravity  of  de- 
meanor was  most  noticeable.  Amid  such  squalid 
surroundings — by  the  side.,  as  it  were,  of  death — 
his  personal  appearance  was  somewhat  remarkable, 
for  lie  was  neat  and  clean  in  dress.  His  fresh 
rosy  cheek  had  tliat  cleanly  appearance  which  de- 
notes the  recent  passage  of  the  razor,  the  light 
mustache  was  brushed  aside  with  a  rakish  upward 
flourish.  The  nose  was  small  and  straight,  tlie 
eves  blue,  A  bright  red  fez  tilted  rather  forward 
completed  the  smart  appearance  of  the  smoker, 
who  manipulated  his  cigarette  daintily,  and,  v/iiile 
listening  to  the  conversation  of  his  two  com- 
panions, made  no  attempt  to  join  in  it.  This  man 
was  Tefik  Bey,  Osman  Pasha's  chief  of  staff,  one 
of  the  defenders  of  Plevna.  I  confess  that  Tefik 
is  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  cannot  tell  what  sort  of 
man  he  is.  He  is  indescribable.  Taciturn  to  a 
degree,  he  was  barely  thirty  years  of  age,  and 
looked  younger.  A  dark,  somber,  silent  man  is 
more  or  less  a  straightforward  production  of  na- 
ture ;  but  Tefik  had  the  appearance  of  a  light- 
hearted  talker,  and  belied  it. 

The  man  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  small, 
low-roofed  chamber  Avas  his  wonderful  chief, 
Osman  Pasha.  Tall,  strongly  built,  and  hand- 
some, he  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  his  young 
colleague.  A  loose,  dark-blue  cloak  hung  from 
his  shoulders,  and  the  inevitable  fez  surmounted 
his  i)owerful  brow.  A  short  black  beard  con- 
cealed a  chin  of  unusual  firmness,  and  from  time 
to  time  a  nervous  movement  of  a  somewhat 
dusky  hand  brushed  the  hair  aside  with  a  rastliug 
sound.  The  nose  was  large  and  inclined  down- 
ward with  a  heavy  curve,  while  beneath  bushy 
brows  a  pair  of  steadfast  black  eyes  looked  sor- 


40.H  SCrsPEA'S£. 

i-owi"ully  fortli  upon  the  world.  Tliere  was  de- 
termination and  a  great  energy  in  those  e\ns^, 
despite  their  Avan  thoughtfulness. 

lie  who  sat  at  the  table  we  know.  It  was  Theo- 
dore Trist.  Clean  and  carefully  shaven,  he 
Avas  literally  clad  in  I'aiis  ;  but  his  face  had  lost 
its  old  dreaminess,  its  vague  meekness  of  de- 
meanor. A  clear  light  in  his  eyes,  the  set  of 
his  lips,  conveyed  in  some  iudelinito  way  that  this 
man  was  iu  his  element.  Despite  his  hollow 
cheeks  and  sunken  temples,  in  the  midst  of  that 
heavy  reek  of  death  and  [)l()od,  this  Englishman 
was  visibly  happy. 

"Do  yon  want,"  Osman  was  saying,  "  to  see 
what  we  can  do  with  our  triple  ranks  of  Ber- 
dans  ?" 

•••-  Yes." 

"  To-morrow  Skobeletf  will  attack  the  redoubt 
again.  He  has  positive  orders  to  take  it  at  any 
cost." 

"  Will  he  take  it  ?  "  asked  Trist. 

Osman  turned  with  a  smile  toward  Tefik,  who 
was  lighting  a  second  cigarette.  The  chief  of 
staff  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  threw  away  the 
ond  of  the  last  cigarette  with  a  sideward  move- 
ment of  his  lips. 

Osman  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  precisely  the 
same  way. 

"Who  knows?"  he  said  quietly.  "If  tlioy 
value  the  redoubt  at  four  thousand  lives,  they 
might  do  it." 

Trist  set  his  two  elbows  on  the  table  and  looked 
up  at  the  speaker's  face  with  calm  speculative 
scrutiny.  He  did  not  offer  him  a  chair,  because 
ho  knew  that  Osman  rarely  sat  down.  The  great 
soldier  had  no  time  for  rest. 


PLEVNA.  409 

'' Skobeleff.*"  said  the  Englishman,  '*  is  a  great 
man,  but  Xapoleou  would  have  been  in  here  some 
time  ago." 

Tefik  moved  slightly,  and  looked  toward  his 
two  companions  with  a  vague  smile.  He  knew 
nothing  of  Napoleon  the  Great  and  his  method 
of  making  war.  Moreover,  he  did  not  care  to 
know. 

It  was  the  chief  of  stalf  who  finally  broke  a 
silence  of  some  duration. 

'•  Listen.  Osman,"  he  said  in  a  soft,  dreamy 
voice.  '•  I  hear  the  sound  of  a  new  gun.  The 
Russians  have  mounted  another  big  one.  We 
are  going  to  get  it  very  hot." 

AH  three  raised  their  heads  and  listened.  After 
the  lapse  of  a  minute  a  dull  thud  broke  ujiou  their 
ears.  The  Russians  had  mounted  a  new  siege 
gun,  and  Plevna  was  beginning  its  career  as  a 
target  for  a  steadily  increasing  army  of  artillery. 
There  was  no  indecent  haste  in  loading  or 
sponging.  It  was  excellent  practise  for  the 
gunners,  and  through  the  next  three  months  the 
sound  of  heavy  firing  never  quite  ceased  night 
or  day.  At  times,  by  way  of  variety,  the  whole 
of  the  artillery  combined  in  directing  its  fire  upon 
a  spot  previously  selected.  But  the  grim  game 
was  not  all  on  one  side,  for  Plevna  pluckily  re- 
turned blow  for  blow. 

"  There  is,"  said  an  expert  at  Russian  head- 
quarters, "  a  European  directing  those  guns — 
probably  a  German." 

But  Trist  never  sighted  a  single  shot,  although 
he  did  not  withhold  his  advice. 

*'  I  know  where  it  is,"  said  Tefik  at  last, 
"  Perhaps  we  can  get  at  it." 

And  he  left  the  room  (quietly. 


410  SUSPENSE. 

The  two  men  remaining  there  did  not  speak  for 
some  time.  Trist  was  occupied  with  a  hirgo 
sheet  of  paper  covered  with  a  fine  writing,  and 
showing  columns  of  figures.  Osnian  had  brouglit 
this  to  him,  and  was  now  evidently  waiting  for  it. 
The  Englishman  skimmed  up  the  columns  with 
the  celerity  of  a  banker's  clerk,  muttering  the 
additions  in  his  native  language.  The  liand.  that 
held  the  pen  was  brown  and  scarred  with  manual 
labor,  for  Trist  had  Avorked  in  the  trenches  day 
and  night. 

'•  Yes,"  he  said  at  length  looking  up  in  a  busi- 
nesslike, curt  way,  wliich  showed  that  between 
tliese  men  there  was  some  bond  of  comradeship. 
''Those  figures  arc  all  right.  At  an  extremity 
3'ou  could  even  reduce  the  allowance  of  soup, 
could  you  not  ?'* 

The  soldier  shook  his  head  with  a  wan  and 
momentary  smile. 

"  Scarcely,"  he  replied.  ''  It  is  getting  colder 
every  day.  If  we  want  to  hold  out  we  must  keep 
up  tlie  hearts  of  the  men,  and  if  there  is  nothing 
to  press  them  upward  all  our  hearts  drop  into 
our  stonuichs,  my  friend." 

"  There  is  more  clothing  to  be  had.  AVe  get 
a  fresh  supply  day  l)y  day,"  said  Trist,  with  an 
uneasy  sigh. 

Osman  winced.  The  meaning  Mas  only  too 
clear,  for  the  time  had  long  since  gone  by  for  men 
to  scruple  over  stripping  tiie  dead  for  the  benefit 
of  the  living. 

"  Yes.     You  are  right." 

"With  these  words  the  commander  of  Plevna 
turned  to  go. 

"  What  news  have  you?"  inquired  Trist  in- 
differently, as  he  set   in   order  the  papers  lying 


PLEVSTA,  411 

upon  his  table.  He  spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  as  all 
men  did  in  Plevna,  because  of  the  roar  of  artillery 
and  the  rolling  echo  among  the  hills. 

"  Oh — nothing  of  importance  !  " 

"Are you  quite  without  communications  from 
outside  ?  " 

Osman  turned  upon  the  threshold,  and  looked 
back  with  a  smile  of  assumed  densit}'.  Then  he 
disappeared  through  the  low  doorway. 

Trist  turned  to  his  papers  again,  but  ho  had 
not  begun  writing  when  the  Turkish  commander 
appeared  once  more. 

"  Trist,"  he  said,  coming  forward  with  long, 
heavy  strides. 

''Yes." 

"I  can  get  you  out  to-night.  Had  you  not 
better  go  ? ' 

"  I  would  rather  sbay,"  replied  the  English- 
man.    "  I  am  neither  a  woman  uor  a  child." 

'•'  But  why  run  the  risk  ?  " 

*'It  is  my  duty." 

'•'  What  we  are  enduring  now,"  said  Osman,  in 
a  dull,  painful  voice,  ''  is  nothing  to  what  I  fore- 
see. At  present  we  make  some  small  attempt  to 
collect  bodies  and  .  .  .  and  limbs,  and  bury  them. 
Soon  that  will  be  impossible,  for  we  shall  want  all 
our  men  at  the  guns  and  in  the  redoubts.  The 
winter  is  coming  on — food  is  already  scarce — the 
wounded  cannot  be  cared  for.  They  and  the  dead 
will  lie  about  the  streets  rotting  in  their  own 
blood.  Mv  friend  !  this  place  will  be  a  hell  on 
earth  ! "     ' 

•''  Nevertheless,  I  stay." 

'*  Disease  will  take  the  town  before  the  Russians 
break  through — few  of  us  will  live  to  see  Christ- 
mas ! "  pleaded  Osman. 


412  SUSPENSE. 

The  Englishman  looked  up  pen  in  hand. 
There  was  actually  a  smilo  hovering  upon  his  firm 
lips. 

"  It  is  useless."  he  said  verv  gentl}-.  *•  I  stay 
till  the  end." 

'•  x\s  you  like."  niurniured  the  soldier,  leaving 
the  room. 

Trist  did  not  begin  work  again  for  some  time. 
The  pile  of  papers  around  was  of  sufficient  di- 
mensions to  alarm  a  less  methodical  laborer,  but 
in  the  apparent  disorder  there  was  really  a  perfect 
system.  Darkness  closed  in  soon,  and  the  war- 
correspondent  lighted  a  small  lamp.  Then  he 
laid  aside  the  larger  mass  of  paper,  and  selected  a 
sheet  which  lie  doubled  carefully  into  the  form  of 
a  letter. 

"  It  is  better,"  he  said,  '•'  to  face  all  probabilities. 
I  shall  write  to  her  now,  in  case  we  are  starved  to 
death  in  here  like  rats." 

Far  into  the  night  this  strange,  restless  English- 
man sat  at  the  little  table,  writing.  Heedless  of 
the  roar  of  artillery,  the  merry  call  of  the  bugle, 
and  the  groan  of  the  dying,  he  wrote  on  at  a  great 
speed,  for  above  all  he  was  a  writer.  His  pen  sped 
over  the  paper  with  that  precision  which  only 
comes  from  long  practise — line  after  line,  page 
after  page  of  the  small  paper,  perfect  in  punctua- 
tion, ready  for  the  press  in  true  journalistic  form. 

He  folded  the  letter,  and  enclosed  it  in  an  en- 
velope, which  he  addressed  carefully  in  a  legible 
round  hand. 

''There,"  he  murmured,  "  let  that  be  the  last 
line  I  write  to-night.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  are 
on  the  verge  of  a  crisis.  Osman  has  something 
on  his  mind  ...  I  wonder  if  he  means  to  tut  his 
way  out." 


The  puzzle  of  Lipe.  413 

Before  lying  down  to  rest  on  the  heap  of  straw 
'.vhich  served  him  as  a  bed,  he  collected  all  his 
papers  and  placed  them  securely  in  a  large  leather 
despatch-case,  upon  which  was  painted  in  black 
letters  the  address  of  the  newspaper  which  he 
served.  This  was  his  nightly  custom  ;  for  he  was 
out  all  day  upon  the  walls  among  the  devoted 
children  of  Islam,  and  where  bullets  are  flying  no 
man  has  a  right  to  ignore  the  chances  of  death. 
There  was  no  bravado  in  the  action,  but  a  mere 
simple  method.  The  chances  were  much  in  favor 
of  the  little  baker's  shop  being  left  empty  one 
night ;  but  that  was  no  reason  why  the  British 
public  should  be  defrauded  of  its  rightful  sensa- 
tion in  the  matter  of  words  written  by  a  hand  that 
is  still,  for  nothing  is  so  safe  to  draw  as  the  last 
words  of  one  who  has  died  in  battle  or  mishap. 

People  who  live  peaceably  at  home  are  accus- 
tomed to  receive  great  odds  in  the  game  of  life  and 
death.  They,  therefore,  cannot  understand  whv 
others — wanderers,  sailors  at  all  times,  soldiers  in 
time  of  war — are  content  with  the  lighter  favor, 
and  have  the  power  of  living  happily  in  close  prox- 
imity to  death. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    PUZZLE   OF   LIFE. 

For  five  days  and  five  nights  there  was  little 
sleep  to  be  had  in  Plevna.  The  Russians  did  not 
attack,  as  had  been  generally  expected  within 
the  town,  but  commenced  a  terrible  bombardment. 


4.U  SUSPEXSE. 

Day  and  night  the  lieavy  guns  were  served  by 
continual  relays  of  men,  and  life  in  the  redoubts 
■\vas  such  as  to  reconcile  the  most  philosophic  to 
death.  Within  the  town  the  scene  was  simply 
liellish.  Osman  has  been  accused  of  neglecting 
his  wounded,  but  no  man  who  crouclied  in  the 
little  town  he  so  gloriously  defended  during  those 
days  would  have  the  courage  to  aver  that  he  could 
have  done  more  than  be  did. 

Tuesday,  the  eleventh  of  September,  dawned, 
gray  and  hopeless.  The  smoke  of  a  million  rifles, 
a  thousand  cannon,  hung  heavily  over  the  low 
hills.  The  continuous  roar  of  the  last  few  days 
seemed  to  have  benumbed  tlie  very  air,  even  as  it 
had  paralyzed  men's  senses. 

In  the  Russian  camp  upon  the  Loftcha  road  there 
were  signs  of  extra  activity.  The  artillery  fire 
was  somewhat  slacker. 

'•They  will  attack  the  redoubts  to-day,"  Theo- 
dore Trist  said  to  himself,  as  ho  surveyed  the  posi- 
tion of  affairs  in  the  gray  morning  light.  There 
was  not  much  to  be  seen,  owing  to  the  density  of 
tlie  fog  hanging  low  in  the  vales,  but  the  five 
days'  bombardment  followed  by  audible  activity  in 
camp  had  some  meaning. 

Osman  knew  his  weak  point  as  well  as  it  was 
known  by  SkobelcIT  ;  but  the  Hussian  general — 
foolhardy,  reckless,  wild  as  he  was — hesitated  to 
attack. 

But  there  is  no  man  who  can  boast  that  he  is 
free  from  the  trammels  of  duty.  "  Duty  is  a  cer- 
tainty," says  one  of  our  great  living  preachers,  and 
I  think  we  often  lose  sight  of  that  fact.  Skobeleff 
liad  received  orders  to  take  the  redoubt  in  the 
curve  of  the  Loftclia  road,  and  on  the  eleventh  of 
September  ho  made  ready  to  obey.     AVhether  it 


THE  PUZZLE  OF  LIFE.  415 

was  a  criniiual  blunder  or  a  deliberate  sacrifice  of 
human  life,  it  is  not  for  us  to  say  ;  nor  must  we 
blame  the  young  general  v/ho,  mucli  against  his 
will  sent  his  men  forward  to  a  certain  death. 

It  was  afternoon  before  the  advance  was  made, 
and  in  many  places  the  fog  had  lifted. 

Theodore  Trist,  witli  that  instinct  of  Avarfare 
which  M'as  his  curse,  had  selected  a  spot  on  the 
hill  behind  the  doomed  fortification,  and  thence, 
or  from  near  at  hand,  he  Avitnessed  that  terrible 
day's  work. 

Failure  was  Skobelelf's  bete  noir.  Success  in 
this  case  was  an  absolute  necessity.  There  was 
only  one  way  of  gaining  it  in  face  of  the  horrible 
fire  which  was  waiting  within  the  fortification. 
Like  the  waves  of  ocean  the  Russian  general  swept 
his  men  up  at  carefully  selected  intervals.  No 
troops  in  the  world  could  have  advanced  under 
such  galling  volleys — they  were  bound  to  waver  and 
fall  back.  But  at  the  moment  of  hesitation  a 
fresh  regiment  came  on  at  the  charge  with  a  wild 
shout,  bearing  on  the  others  in  front  of  them. 
Four  regiments  rushed  on  thus  to  their  death — 
three  thousand  men  in  three  hundred  yards.  In 
the  redoubt  the  Turks  fought  with  that  calm, 
desperate  fatalism  which  makes  such  grand  sol- 
diers of  the  followers  of  Mahomed. 

Theodore  Trist,  standing  on  the  scarp  of  a  sec- 
ond redoubt  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  to  the 
rear,  wrote  rapidly  in  his  book,  his  mouth  quiver- 
ing v.'ith  excitement.  At  last  he  could  stand  it 
no  longer. 

"  By  God  !  "  he  exclaimed  hoarsely,  "  I  have 
never  seen  anything  like  this  !" 

And  shouting  incoherently,  he  ran  down  the 
slope  toward  the  redoubt. 


41 6  Si/SPENSE. 

At  this  inomeiit  SkobelutI  came  charging  up 
at  the  head  of  his  last  reserve,  a  mere  handful  of 
sharpshooters.  Trist  saw  the  general  fall  and 
roll  over  with  his  stricken  horse,  A  great  throh 
seemed  to  choke  him,  and  he  barely  realized  that 
Skobelcff  was  on  his  feet  again  leading  on  his  men, 
■waving  his  sword  and  shrieking  like  a  madman. 
A  moment  later  the  Englishman  was  borne  u})-hill 
before  a  rushing  mass  of  Turks,  black  with  powtler, 
voiceless,  inhuman  in  their  fury.  The  redoubt 
was  lost ! 

But  Trist  did  not  give  May  to  the  general  panic. 
The  instinct  of  journalism  was  too  strong  in  him, 
and  he  stood  for  a  moment  between  the  two  re- 
doubts looking  on  with  practised  eyes.  He  knew 
exactly  how  many  men  had  been  defending  the 
position  now  lost,  and  was  busy  counting  roughly 
the  small  number  of  fugitives.  In  certain  corners 
of  the  redoubt  the  fight  was  still  going  on,  but  the 
Turks  in  there  were  no  better  than  dead  men. 

While  he  was  still  there  a  Russian  non-commis- 
sioned officer  picked  up  the  rifle  of  a  Turk,  and 
took  aim  at  the  solitary  figure  standing  upon  the 
slope,  but  Skobelcff  knocked  away  the  barrel  with 
his  sword. 

"  Not  that  man,  my  child  ! ''  he  exclaimed,  in 
a  voice  hoarse  with  shouting.  "I  know  him. 
Let  the  story  of  this  fight  be  told  ! " 

The  artillery  fire  had  ceased  all  round,  and  for 
a  moment  there  was  a  great  silence  in  the  valley, 
only  broken  by  the  moan  of  the  dying  and  an  oc- 
casional rifle-shot  here  and  there.  It  was  almost 
as  if  the  living  stood  aghast — ashamed  and  cower- 
ing before  their  Maker,  by  the  side  of  their  grim 
handiwork.  And  so  darkness  came  over  the  land, 
covering  the  hideouspess  of  ir  with  w  merciful  veil, 


''  THE  PUZZLE  OE  LIFE.  417 

"  They  cannot  possibly  hold  it  I  "  Trist  said  to 
an  officer  who  accosted  him  as  he  made  his  way — ■ 
dazed  and  stupefied — back  into  the  town.  '•  Ifc 
is  untenable," 

This  was  no  idle  attem2)t  at  consolation.  The 
Kussian  general  had  obeyed  orders,  but  now  he 
knew  that  his  gallant  Avork  had  been  all  in  vain. 
By  itself  the  redoubt  was  useless,  for  it  was  fully 
exposed  to  the  Turkish  fire,  and  there  was  no 
material  at  hand  to  reconstruct  it,  had  his  weary 
men  been  equal  to  the  task,  which  they  were  not. 
During  the  night  he  sent,  again  and  again,  for 
reinforcements,  which  were  persistently  withheld, 
and  at  dawn  he  pluckily  prepared  to  defend  the 
position  as  best  he  might  with  the  remainder  of 
his  own  army  corps. 

Trist  had  said  that  Avhen  Osman  and  Skobeleff 
met  there  would  be  war  indeed,  and  the  result 
proved  with  terrible  reality  that  he  had  spoken 
naught  else  but  the  truth. 

At  daybreak  the  fight  began  again.  The  rest- 
less Turkish  leader  had  made  all  liis  arrangements 
during  the  night.  Exposed  as  it  was  to  a  galling 
fire  from  all  sides,  it  seemed  impossible  that  tlie 
redoubt  could  be  held.  l>nt  Skobeleft'  was  there, 
and  under  Skobeleff  the  Russians  have  fought  iis 
they  never  did  before. 

At  Turkish  headquarters  there  was  little  or  no 
anxiety,  for  the  enemy  could  not  afford  to  take 
another  redoubt  at  such  a  cost,  and  so  skilfully 
had  the  fortifications  been  planned,  that  there 
was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  further  advances 
could  be  made  more  easily. 

''To-morrow."  Osman  had  said  to  his  chief  of 
staff,  *'' it  must  be  retaken  !"  and  the  young  officer 
merelv  nodded  his  head.     Then  with  the  pencil 
^^ 


4l8  SUSPENSE. 

that  he  carried  stuck  into  his  fez  above  his  ej-e, 
the  Turkish  commander  proceeded  to  write  out 
his  instructions. 

At  daybreak  the  fight  began  again,  and  the  sun 
had  not  yet  lost  its  matutinal  redness  when  the 
first  organized  attack  was  made.  This  was  re- 
pulsed, and  the  same  fate  attended  four  subsequent 
attempts.  Xo  man  but  Skobeleft'  could  have  held 
that  position  for  so  long.  As  usual,  there  was 
something  unique  and  original  in  his  style  of  de- 
fense. He  waited  until  the  attacking  force  was 
almost  within  forty  yards  before  firing,  and  then 
met  them  with  one  crashing  volley,  the  sound  of 
which  rose  to  the  firmanent  like  the  crack  of 
doom.  After  that  the  roll  of  fire  swept  from  side 
to  side,  from  end  to  end,  with  a  continuous  grating 
rattle  like  the  sweep  of  a  scythe  in  hay. 

The  short  day  was  almost  drawing  to  a  close, 
when  the  remnant  of  the  fifth  attacking  corps  re- 
turned, baffled  ujid  disheartened.  The  sun  had 
already  disappeared  behind  a  bank  of  purple 
cloud,  through  which  gleamed  bars  of  lurid  gold 
low  down  upon  the  rounded  hills.  Overhead 
there  was  a  shimmering  haze  of  Indian  red.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  the  sky  had  caught  the  re-, 
flection  of  the  blood-stained  earth. 

To  the  earg  of  the  Turks  came  the  distant  sound 
of  voices  hoarsely  cheering.  The  sound  was  of 
no  great  strength,  for  Skobeleff  himself  had  been 
voiceless  all  day,  and  the  remainder — a  mere 
handful  of  black-faced,  wild  madmen — were  dry 
and  parched. 

"  They  must  be  nearly  worn  out,"  said  Osman 
quietly,  upon  receiving  the  latest  report.  "  We 
will  attack  again,  and  take  the  redoubt  before 
nightfall." 


THE  PUZZLE  OF  LIFE. 


419 


Tefik  merely  acquiesced  without  comment,  as 
was  his  wont,  and  turned  away  to  give  his  orders 
with  a  close  precision  which  inspired  great  con- 
fidence in  his  subordinates. 

Presently  he  returned  to  where  his  chief  was 
standing,  not  far  removed  from  Theodore  Trist, 
who  was  writing  hard  upon  a  gun-carriage. 

"■  They  want  somebody  to  lead  them,"  said 
Tefik  significantly.  His  contempt  for  the  usual 
run  of  portly,  comfortable  Turkish  line-officers 
was  well  known. 

Trist  looked  up  and  saw  that  the  commander 
was  looking  at  his  subordinate  with  calmly  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

**I,"  said  the  Englishman,  closing  his  note- 
book as  he  came  forward,  "  will  go  for  one." 

''And  I,  and  I,  and  I  1"  came  from  all  sides. 
Some  were  staff- officers,  some  civilians,  some  old 
men  and  some  mere  boys. 

"  An  Englishman,"  said  Tefik,  with  the  faint- 
est suggestion  of  a  smile,  "  is  too  valuable  to  be 
refused  !     It  would  make  all  the  difference." 

"I  have  been  idle  long  enough,"  answered 
Trist,  in  a  voice  laden  with  suppressed  excitement. 
"I  cannot  stand  it  any  longer." 

He  closed  his  note-book,  drew  the  elastic  care- 
fully over  it,  and  raised  his  eves  to  the  strange, 
dishevelled  group  of  men  before  him.  The  chief 
of  this  wonderful  staff,  Osman  himself,  held  out 
his  hand  without  a  word,  took  the  book,  and 
dropped  it  into  the  pocket  of  his  long  blue 
cloak. 

^  Already  the  call  of  the  bugle  told  that  prepara- 
tions were  in  course — that  the  commanders  orders 
were  being  executed. 


42  O  SUSPENSE. 

Before  darkness  lowered  over  the  land  the  re- 
doubt was  again  in  the  hands  of  the  Turks.  This 
is  a  matter  of  history — as  also  the  fact  that  the 
flower  of  the  Russian  army  hiy  all  round  Plevna 
for  three  moiiths  afterward,  and  never  gained  an 
advantage  equal  to  that  which  they  had  held  for 
twenty-four  hours.  Osman  was  impregnable — ■ 
Plevna  unassailable,  except  by  the  slower  weapon 
of  bodily  hunger — grim  starvation. 

It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of 
the  twelfth  of  September,  before  Tefik  Bey,  the 
grave  young  chief  of  staff,  found  time  to  visit  the 
great  double  redoubt  which  had  cost  the  Russian 
army  over  five  thousand  lives. 

Accompanied  by  an  orderly  bearing  a  simple 
paraflin  hurricane-lamp,  he  made  his  laborious  way 
over  the  heaps  of  dead.  Upon  the  hill  above  the 
redoubt  the  Turks  lay  in  thousands.  There  were 
rows  of  them,  shoulder  to  shoulder  as  they  had 
charged,  marking  the  effect  of  Skobelelf's  terrible 
volleys.  Below  the  defense,  upon  the  lower  slope, 
the  Russians  covered  the  earth,  and  in  the  redoubt 
itself  Moslem  and  Christian  lay  entangled  in  the 
throes  of  death.  They  were  literally  piled  on  the 
top  of  each  other — a  very  storehouse  of  the  dead 
— for  the  Russians  had  fought  all  day  standing 
upon  the  bodies  of  the  slain.  Now  the  ready 
Turks  trampled  countryman  and  foe  alike  beneath 
their  feet,  for  it  was  by  no  means  certain  that  an 
attempt  might  not  be  made  at  once  to  regain  the 
coveted  position. 

While  crossing  a  ditch,  that  had  been  hastily 
cut  by  the  Russians,  Telik  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Give  me  the  lantern  ! "  he  said,  in  a  peculiar 
short  way. 

Then   he    stooped    over    the    body   of  a  man 


THE  KXD  OF  IT  ALL.  42 1 

who  lay  face  downward  upon  the  hlood-soaked 
turf. 

•'  Turn  him  over  I '' 

The  flame  of  the  hurricane-lamp  flickered 
ruddily,  and  liglited  up  a  calm,  bland  face.  The 
Arm  lips  were  slightly  ])arted  in  a  smile,  which 
seemed  to  be,  in  some  subtle  way,  interrogative 
in  its  tendency.  Tlie  eyes  were  wide  open,  but 
not  unpleasantly  so,  and  tlieir  expression  was  one 
of  meek,  gentle  surprise.  'J'he  whole  incongru- 
ous face  as  it  reposed  there,  looking  upward  to 
its  Creator,  seemed  to  say,  "  Why  ?" 

Tefik  rose  to  liis  full  height. 

'' Le  philosophe,"  lie  murmured,  with  a  little 
shake  of  the  head.  *•  Ali  !  but  that  is  a  pity — a 
thousand  2>ities  I " 

He  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  gazing 
npward  at  the  stars,  now  peeping  ont  in  the  rifts 
of  lieavy  cloud.  Unconsciously  he  had  turned  his 
grave  voung  eves  to  tlie  west — toward  civilization 
and  England. 

After  a  moment  he  turned  and  went  on  his 
way,  stumbling  in  the  dark  over  the  dead  and 
wounded. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE    END    OF    IT    ALL. 


All  through  the  rough  autumn,  and  on  into 
midwinter,  Plevna  held  out.  All  the  world  wait- 
ed and  watched,  sympathizing,  as  is  its  way,  with 
the  side  where  sheer  pluck  seems  predominant. 

At  Wyl's  Hall,  AFrs.  Wylie  and  Brenda  lived  ou 
in  their  quiet  way  ;  and,   to   these  two,  life  soou 


422  StJSPENSlt. 

assumed  a  calm,  uiirunicd  regularity.  Small  local 
incidents  took  to  thenitjclvcs  a  greater  importance, 
and  the  larger  events  of  the  world  reached  them 
only  as  an  echo. 

As  winter  laid  its  hand  with  increasing  power 
over  the  land,  so  Wyvenwich  found  itself  day  by 
day  more  isolated  from  the  world,  nntil  one  morn- 
ing in  the  middle  of  December  the  last  link  was 
severed.  A  great  fall  of  snow,  driven  across  the 
North  Sea,  besieged  the  Eastern  counties,  and 
for  a  time  paralyzed  all  workers.  The  coast- 
guards could  do  nothing,  for  tliey  were  hemmed 
in  by  great  drifts  on  Mizzen  Heath  ^loor.  The 
boats  were  full  of  snow,  the  roads  impassable,  and 
the  small  branch  railroad  hopelessly  blocked  by 
drifts,  sixteen  feet  deep  in  parts. 

During  five  days,  no  news  of  the  outer  world 
reached  Wyvenwich  until  at  last  a  signalman, whose 
occupation  was  gone  by  reason  of  the  snowed-up 
railway,  made  his  way  on  foot  from  the  junction 
on  the  main-line,  carrying  the  nuiil-bag  on  his 
shoulders. 

This  man  brought  the  five-days-old  news  of  the 
fall  of  Plevna. 

It  was  almost  midday  before  the  post-bag  was 
delivered  at  Wyl's  Hall,  and  the  two  ladies  wei-e 
sitting  in  the  broad-wimlowed  library  when  the 
servant  brought  it  to  them.  There  was  a  heap  of 
unfinished  needlework  upon  the  table,  for  it  will 
be  easily  understood  that  such  a  woman  as  the 
widow  would  be  able  to  find  good  work  to  do  in  a 
hard  winter. 

"  Ah  I  "  exclaimed  the  good  lady,  throwing  her 
M'ork  aside — "  letters  at  last  I  " 

The  servant  smiled  sympathetically,  and  left 
the  room.     The  key  O'f  the  bag  was  soou  takea 


The  end  of  it  all.  423 

from  its-hidiug-place  in  an  ornament  on  the 
mantelpiece,  and  Mrs.  Wylie  sliook  out  the  letters 
upon  the  table. 

*'It  is  delightful/'  she  exclaimed,  '*  to  be  in 
communication  with  the  outer  .   .     ." 

Suddenly  she  stopped,  and  laid  the  old  leather 
bag  aside  slowly. 

There  were  two  thin  brown  envelopes  among 
the  white  ones  ;  also  a  larger  one  bearing  a  foreign 
stamp,  and  carrying  evident  marks  of  a  long 
journey.  This  was  addressed  to  Brenda,  as  were 
the  two  telegrams. 

*'  .  .  .   Outer    world,"  said  Mrs.    "Wylie,  in  a 
peculiar  breathless  way,  finishing  lier  interrupted 
remark  with   determination.     ''There  are  .  .  . 
two  telegrams  .   .  .  for  you,  Brenda." 

The  girl  took  the  envelopes  without  comment, 
and  opened  one,  dropping  it  subsequently  upon 
the  floor  while  unfolding  the  pink  paper.  She 
read  the  message  without  a  change  of  countenance, 
while  ^Irs.  Wylie  made  a  brave  pretense  of  being 
interested  in  her  own  letters.  In  the  same  man- 
ner Brenda  opened  the  second  telegram. 

After  she  had  read  it,  there  was  a  horrible  si- 
lence in  the  room,  while  the  elder  woman  stood 
nervously  reading  the  address  of  a  letter  to  her- 
self over  and  over  again. 

Then  Brenda  spoke  in  a  clear  voice,  which  bore 
no  resemblance  to  her  usual  tones  at  all. 

"  Theo  Trist  is  dead,"  she  said.  '*  He  was 
killed  on  the  twelfth  of  September  at  Plevna  ! " 

The  widow  held  out  her  hand,  and  took  the 
two  telegrams.  They  were  from  the  great  Lon- 
don editor — one  telling  of  a  rumor,  the  second  con- 
firming it.  Brenda  nad  read  the  confirmation 
first. 


424  SUSFEiVSE. 

At  last  Mrs.  Wylio  raised  here  eyes  to  lier  coni- 
l)anion''s  face,  and  following  the  direction  of  the 
girl's  gaze,  she  remembered  tlie  large,  ill-used 
envelope  bearing  afnrcis:!!  stain]i. 

''  That  letter,"  she  whispered,  trembling  m  itli 
downright  fear. 

''Yes,"  answered  lirenda,  Avith  the  same  sicken- 
ing composure.      •'  It  is  from  him." 

Then  she  took  it  and  turned  away  to  tlie  win- 
dow. 

Without  exactly  knowing  what  she  was  doing, 
Mrs.  Wvlie  Siit  down  again  in  the  chair  she  had 
vacated  on  the  advent  of  tlie  post-bag.  Her  lips 
moved  as  she  stared  stupidly  at  the  work  tossed 
aside  on  the  table. 

''0  GodI  "  she  Avas  whispering,  "give  her 
strength  !  " 

It  seemed  hours  that  she  sat  there  without  dur- 
ing to  raise  her  eyes.  She  heard  lirenda  break 
open  the  envelope  and  unfold  the  j)aper,  which 
crackled  loudly.  Then  there  came  no  sound  at  all 
except  at  times  a  suppressed  rustle  as  a  page  was 
turned. 

At  last  the  girl  moved,  turning  and  coming  to- 
wards her  companion. 

'*  There  ..."  she  said  gently,  ''  you  may  as 
well  read  it." 

She  laid  the  closely  written  sheets  upon  the 
table,  for  i\rrs.  Wylie  did  not  hold  out  her  hand, 
and  turned  again  toward  the  window,  where  she 
stood  looking  out  upon  the  gleaming  snow. 

After  a  space,  IMrs.  Wylie  took  up  the  letter 
and  road  it  dreamily,  without  comprehending 
its  full  meaning — without  realizing  that  the  hand 
Avhich  hiid  directed  tlie  clear,  firm  pen  would  never 
write  another  word.     It  ran  as  followB  : 


THE  END  OF  IT  ALL.  42$ 

"  Dear  Brenda  : 

''It  may  be  thnt  the  long  confinement  in  this 
grim  slaughter-house  lias  upset  my  nerve,  or  it 
may,  perhaps,  be  that  I  am  not  so  hard  or  so 
plucky  as  I  was.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  am  going  to 
break  through  a  resolution  to  which  I  have  held 
ever  since  I  took  to  the  a\  arpath.  It  was  my  in- 
tention to  wait  uutil  the  end  of  this  campaign  be- 
fore telling  you  that  1  have  always  loved  you — 
that  I  have  always  looked  up  to  you  as  my  ideal  of  a 
brave,  true  wouian.  I  never  doubted,  darling,  that 
my  love  for  you  was  and  is  a  strong,  firm  reality, 
as  all  the  factors  in  my  life  have  been.  I  never 
doubted  its  truth,  its  honesty,  and  its  permanency 
— but  these  very  qualities  held  it  back.  If  I  had 
loved  you  less,  I  could  have  asked  you  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  war-correspoTident  (and  one  whose  repu- 
tation was  such  that  he  could  not  afford  to  be 
found  in  the  background).  This,  Brenda,  has 
been  my  secret  ever  since  I  left  college — ever 
since  I  followed  the  irresistible  inclination  which 
led  me  on  to  the  battlefield.  It  is  unnecessary  to 
dwell  now  upon  the  effort  that  I  have  had  to  make 
a  thousand  times  to  conceal  my  feelings.  I  used 
to  think  (and  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  I 
hoped)  that  you  would  juarry  some  one  infinitely 
worthier  of  you — some  one  who  was  richer,  and 
wiser,  and  cleverer,  and  some  one  whose  profession 
was  less  hazardous  ;  but  in  the  last  year  or  two 
I  have  conceived  the  wild  notion  that  there  was  a 
reason  in  your  persistent  blindness  to  the  merits 
of  men  calculated  in  every  way  to  make  you 
happy.  Gradually  I  came  round  to  the  belief 
that  you  understood,  in  some  subtle  feminine  way, 
the  policy  I  was  pursuing,  and  in  this  belief  Mrs. 
Wyhe  persistently  encouraged  me  in  that  cheery, 


426  SUSPENSE. 

iniiuitable  way  of  hers.  If  1  have  made  a  gross 
rnisLakt,  you  and  Mrs.  Wylic  must  let  me  know  as 
mercifully  as  you  can.  1  leave  my  case  in  your 
little  hands,  darling.  But  1  feel  confident  that  I 
am  right.  liashness  of  conclusion,  hastiness  of 
action,  has  never  been  ascribed  to  me,  and  it  is 
only  after  long  consideration — after  placing  the 
circumstances  persistently  before  myself  in  their 
very  worst  light — that  I  have  taken  to  myself  the 
comforting  thought  that  I  can  make  your  life  a 
happy  one  (as  lives  go)  if  you  will  trust  it  to  me. 
AVe  are  not  strangers,  Brenda,  but  have  known 
each  other  since  we  could  first  stand,  and  we  have 
always  been  good  friends.  As  I  have  grown  from 
youth  to  manhood,  my  love  for  you  has  grown 
also  in  strength  and  sureness.  1  have  never 
doubted  it  for  a  moment,  though  I  may  have 
hesitated  as  to  its  wisdom.  Perhaps  I  may  have 
caught  from  you  a  habit  of  setting  both  sides  of  a 
question  upon  a  footing  inconveniently  similar, 
and  the  result  has  been  an  honest  conviction  that 
you  could  do  better  than  marry  me.  Xow  that 
conviction  has  given  way  to  another — namely, 
that  I  simply  cannot  do  without  you — cannot  get 
on  at  all,  except  it  be  at  your  own  express  wish 
that  I  should.  Circumstances  have  now  changed. 
I  have  been  fortunate  in  making  a  name,  and  in 
escaping  many  risks  to  which  others  have  fallen  vic- 
tims. I  can  command  my  own  price,  and  make  my 
own  conditions.  Altogether,  I  am  now  in  a  posi- 
tion such  as  an  honorable  man  could  ask  his  wife 
to  share.  As  soon  as  this  campaign  (my  last)  is 
over.  I  shall  hurry  home  to  you.  After  all,  my 
resolution  has  not  collapsed  entirely,  for  this  let- 
ter cannot  leave  here  until  an  end  of  some  sort 
come  upon  us.     We  are  like  rata  iu  a  trap,  but 


THE  END  Ot  JT  ALL.  4:?  7 

the  pluck  of  these  fellows  is  something  wonderful. 
I  shall  have  much  to  tell  you  when  I  get  back,  for 
I  am  the  sole  historian  of  events  inside  Plevna, 
lu  the  meantime,  darling,  I  dare  to  call  myself 

"  Your  lover, 

"  Theodore  Tkist. 

"Plevna,  7th  September,  1877."       • 

Mrs.  Wylie  looked  again  at  the  signature  in 
a  curious,  mechanical  way,  as  if  verifying  it. 
'^  Theodore  Trist."  Two  simple  words  in  bold 
abruptness  without  flourisli,  scroll,  or  ornament. 
A  clear  running  caligraphy,  strong  and  ])lain, 
rapid,  legible,  straightforward  and  pnr[>osefu], 
fresh  from  the  fingers  now  still  in  death. 

The  last  time  the  name  was  ever  written  by  its 
possessor  was  at  the  foot  of  that  letter  to  Brenda. 

Tlie  girl  herself  stood  at  the  window,  looking 
over  the  snow-clad  moorland  to  the  gray  sea. 
Her  back  Avas  turned  toward  the  room  ;  her  white 
hands  hung  motionless  at  her  side.  Xear  to  lier 
the  telegrams  lay  on  a  small  table,  half  unfolded, 
disclosing  their  short  brutality  of  diction. 

Outside,  the  sun  shone  down  on  the  glancing 
sea.  The  waves  gleamed  white,  and  on  the 
shingle  sang  their  everlasting  song.  All  the 
world  was  lovely.  The  sea-birds  whirled  in  mid- 
air, and  shrieked  fantastically  for  very  joy.  They 
had  no  thought  of  their  own  end — no  doubts  as 
to  the  purpose  of  their  creation — no  question  as 
to  the  wisdom  of  their  Creator.  Only  man — the 
lord  of  all  the  earth — has  these  ! 


IHE  EifB. 


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